Red vs Blue: Days Gone By
by LDSocrates
Summary: It's been months since the final fight with O'Malley, and Church is not over Tex's death. After he finds a certain message, both Red and Blue will make new friends, witness the deepest of betrayals, and turn the tide in a war stretched across a galaxy...
1. Remembrance and Denial

**Okay, I would like those of you who actually read the authors notes (which is very few, I believe) to know that this is basically my first official attempt at a fanfiction. Unofficially, I've written other pieces, but I didn't think them of high enough quality to post on the internet. But don't let my lack of experience affect your judgment in any way. All I want is the brutally honest truth from those of you who actually decide to review.**

**This fic is rated in a pretty high T because of the typical Red vs. Blue stuff. If you don't know what that means, there is a lot of swearing and quite a few sexual innuendoes. If you're not sure what sexual innuendoes are, run along and ask your parents; trust me, they just LOVE to explain that sort of thing!**

**Also, you should have a healthy sense of humor concerning your religion, sexuality, favorite franchises, and other such personal criteria. So if you're a religiously fanatical nutjob or a politically correct wimp, this story is not for you. Just a friendly reminder.**

**Oh, I almost forgot. A passage all in **_**italics**_** are flashbacks, alright? And if you haven't seen Episode 100 of Red vs. Blue, then I suggest you do so before reading. Normally I'd suggest seeing the whole series if you're new to it, but just inform me if any of you are confused, and I'll contact you via PM. Trust me, it'll save a lot of time.**

**Disclaimer: Red vs. Blue and all affiliated characters are copyrighted property of Rooster Teeth Productions. Any franchises mentioned in the future will be added to this list as they appear.**

* * *

Oh, the back of my head, _he mentally groaned after being knocked to the ground. Numerous multicolored spots danced before his eyes as he attempted to stand up again. When his vision fully cleared, he saw the other residents of Blood Gulch several meters away, save for one._

_"Where'd he go? Where'd he go? Is he gone?" he asked frantically, his head sweeping to each of his eight allies in turn._

_He suddenly noticed the beeps that were coming through the radio that were gradually increasing in volume. The cobalt soldier cautiously turned around, afraid of who he would see, hoping beyond all hope that it wasn't who he thought it was._

_Those hopes where shattered when he spotted a black-armored soldier behind him, gun down by her side and head facing the ground._

_"Tex..." he said warily, eyeing the freelancer for any sudden movement._

_"Church, run!" she pleaded, her body beginning to quake._

_The cobalt-armored Private ran up to her, grabbed hold of her shoulders and shouted, "Tex, don't!"_

_The beeping stopped, and her shaking soon after. To his great surprise, she held up her left hand and placed it comfortingly on his shoulder. She pulled him closer to her, and her head rested next to his right ear._

_His temporary delusion that she had changed her mind was broken by reality when a deep, male voice growled into his ear, "You have no idea what kind of trouble you are in."_

_Before he could react, the mercenary kneed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The grip on his shoulder tightened, and with a roar of effort, she spun around and tossed him over ten meters, right in the midst of his teammates._

_The throaty voice of the villainous AI chuckled as the soldier struggled to stand, even with his team's assistance. He had landed on his left leg awkwardly, and he was pretty sure something was broken._

"_Wait, Tex, you _don't_ want to do this!" he cried as she snatched up an abandoned white helmet and sprinted for the nearby Pelican drop ship._

_"Sheila, are you ready?" the malicious AI, O'Malley, asked as it and its new host ran up the boarding ramp._

_"All systems online," the ship's female AI responded. "Ignition coil activated. Starting thrusters."_

_Just as the ship's boarding ramp closed, the ship's thrusters activated and blew a torrent of dust into the Red and Blue teams. Church shakily stood up with his arms slung over the shoulders of Privates Caboose and Tucker, two of his fellow Blue Team members in Blood Gulch, when the Pelican hovered shakily into the air._

_"Launch when ready," O'Malley ordered as he and his host arrived at the front of the ship._

_"Please, take your seats," instructed Sheila. "Launching in three… two…"_

_"Tex, don't, do this!" Church begged one more time via radio._

_"…one…liftoff," Sheila finished as the ship slowly started to ascend._

_"Goodbye…" came Tex's solemn voice._

_"We have to stop her right NOW!" Church said desperately, turning to Sarge, Red Team's leader._

_"No problem-o, Blue," the gruff sergeant responded in his thick southern accent. A click was heard, signifying that Sarge had turned on his radio. "Andy, you there?"_

_"I'm here, coach!" a highly exited male voice replied._

_"What's going on?" asked a confused Church._

_"Tex is hooking up Wyoming's helmet to the computer," Andy responded, misunderstanding the question._

_"Ready for your job, soldier?" Sarge continued, ignoring Church._

_"You bet!"_

_"Alright, Son, do what you were born to do: detonate."_

_"Hey, do you want me to start from ten or three?" Andy asked eagerly. "Come on, the suspense will kill 'em!"_

_By then the ship had cleared the walls of the canyon and was beginning to fly away._

_"Ten!"_

_"I TOLD YOU TO _DISABLE_ THE SHIP-"_

"_Nine!"_

"_-NOT _DESTROY_ IT!" Church screamed furiously at the Red Army sergeant._

"_Eight!"_

_The blood-red armored officer shrugged. "Oh well. Score one for the Red Team, I guess."_

"_Seven!"_

"_What about my kid?" the cyan-armored soldier on Church's left, Tucker, asked, referring to his alien child onboard the Pelican._

"_Six!"_

"_Oh, right-"_

"_Five!"_

"_-score two!" Sarge corrected himself._

"_Four!"_

"_Andy, do-"_

"_Three!"_

"_-NOT detonate!" Church ordered. "Can you see where they're-"_

"_Two!"_

"_-heading? Do you know where she's going?"_

"_One!"_

_Roughly a kilometer above Blood Gulch, there was a brief flash of light…_

…_and the ship was gone._

"…_Tex?" Church said in disbelief, his eyes fixed on the spot where the ship was a second before._

"…_Boo! No explosion!" a Red soldier in orange armor, Grif, called out before hanging his head low, disappointed. "That sucked…"_

_Lo and behold, a smear of fire and smoke burst in the sky with a loud crack seconds later._

"…_Ha Ha! Blam-o!" Sarge cheered._

"_Wow!" shouted another Red, a man in pink armor by the name of Donut. "That explosion was _awesome!_"_

"_What explosion?" Grif snapped his gaze skyward again. "I didn't see it! Do it again!"_

_Church shrugged off his teammates and solemnly hobbled toward Blue base, the tip of his sniper rifle dragging in the dirt at his side. He winced at the pain that shot up his leg every time he moved it, but his mind was on other things._

"_Uh, Church?" Tucker asked him tentatively. "What should we do?"_

_The man in cobalt stopped in his tracks and said over his shoulder, "Do whatever you want. I'm goin' home."_

"_Yeah, fuck this!" Tucker enthusiastically agreed, following suit along with the three other Blues. Whether he was trying to cheer him up or was simply saying, Church couldn't tell. Then again, he didn't really care._

_As he continued walking he could faintly hear Simmons, the Red's former second-in-command in maroon armor, ask "Sarge… are we fighting?"_

"_No, Simmons," he answered. "I think they've had their ass kicked enough for one day. Let's leave some for tomorrow."_

* * *

It had been roughly five months since that incident, and yet still Private Leonard Church couldn't help but replay those events in his head. Something just seemed wrong about it…

"Hey, Church," a voice greeted him, snapping his mind back to the present. He was lying on his back on top of one of the flatter boulders near Blue base with his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the sky above him.

Church lifted his head slightly to see a man in cyan armor strolling up to him. "Hey, Tucker," he replied half-heartedly as he went back to gazing at the non-existent clouds.

The Blue Army Private reached the foot of the rock, looked up at Church and asked "What are you doing?"

"Britney-fucking-Spears," the man in cobalt absent-mindedly replied.

"Dude, you're about as close to going at it with her as I am to giving Mewtwo a blowjob," Tucker scoffed.

Church looked over the side of his three-meter high pillar and cocked an eyebrow, despite the fact that he was wearing a helmet. "…What?"

Tucker laughed to himself and said, "I knew that would get your attention."

"Furry asshole," the disgruntled Blue spat as rolled onto his back again and attempted to return to his thoughts.

"Hey, I ain't no furry!" he protested. "I was only saying that to stop you from being emo SOB for five seconds!"

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."

"You know what? Screw you, you fucktard!" Tucker shouted. "Seriously, I come to cheer you up and this is the thanks I get?"

The Private below started to storm off. He didn't get very far when Church stated, "I was thinking."

"Alright," the irritated man breathed, turning on his heel. "Can I join you without you going into PMS mode again?"

Church paused for a second, and finally sighed in defeat. "Sure, if you want to."

After a minute or so of grunts, Tucker heaved himself over the edge next to his friend and lay on his back, panting. "Dude, how did you get up here with your bad leg, anyway?"

Blue Team's sniper caught himself before he let out another sarcastic comment and explained, "Okay, one, I do not have a bad leg. I'm a ghost possessing a robot's body in case you haven't noticed; all I need is some new parts and I'm as good as new. In answer to your question: Out of sheer determination to get away from Doc and Sister."

"What, Caboose isn't on the list?" Tucker chuckled, getting in the same laidback position Church was.

"I've kind of gotten used to him. I mean, sure, he's a fucking retard, but he's okay in my book, I guess."

"We're talking about the same person, right?" the cyan-armored recruit asked disbelievingly, turning his head to face Church.

"Yeah…"

"You sure you're talking about Caboose? OUR Caboose? The guy in regulation blue? The dude who loads his gun with crayons? The full-grown man who doesn't know how _babies_ are made? The idiot who's _killed_ you on two different occasions? THAT Caboose?"

"What, is there a problem with that?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all. No need to get touchy."

The conversation was dropped. After a few more minutes of staring at the sky, Tucker broke the silence once again.

"…What are you thinking about?"

"Why would you want to know?"

"Come on, man! Tell me! I'll tell you what I'm thinking about," Tucker whined.

"Mewtwo's ass?" Church guessed.

"What the hell? Would you just let that go already?"

"Tucker, you aren't going to hear the end of that until the day you die."

"Screw this, I'm leaving!" Tucker exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. He threw his legs over the side and readied himself to jump off.

"Sorry, dude, I'm sorry!" Church apologized.

"Promise not to bring that up again?"

"Promise."

"Alright then." Tucker threw his hands back behind his head and turned his gaze skyward once more.

Minutes passed and the silence was broken again, this time by Church. "I was thinking about the incident with O'Malley a while back."

"You're still thinking about that?" Tucker inquired. "Dude, it's almost been a half-a-year. You're going to have to get over it sometime."

"Don't tell me you don't feel anything!" Church blurted, putting his hands behind him to hold himself up. "Your own KID was on that ship!"

"Don't you think I know that?" Tucker replied, his voice as calm as ever. "One of the first things I learned in life, man: Shit happens. Andy blew up, they all died, end of story."

Church couldn't believe what he was hearing. Tucker's lost his child on that ship, and yet he didn't feel _anything?_

"I mean, we got rid of a rampant AI determined to conquer and/or destroy the universe and stopped him from enslaving an entire alien species to help make it happen. Overall, I think it may be a blessing in disguise," he continued. "Sure T.J. and Tex died, but that also means one less alien baby and one less bitch to worry about."

Church just stared at his teammate, dumbstruck. But that shock turned to anger soon enough.

"What… the fuck… is WRONG with you?" Church seethed, standing upright with his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Lazily turning his head at his enraged comrade's visor-covered face, Tucker said, "Look, when you grow up in a neighborhood where the guy across the street would be just as likely to shoot you as look at you, the first thing you learn is to move on, 'cause if you stand still even for one second, mentally or physically, that gives someone a chance to plant a bullet in your head."

"You won't be able to enjoy life living in the past," Tucker went on. "And that's what you have to do with life: enjoy it. Loosen up. Live for the moment. That's what I do, and I'm one of the happiest guys in the world. Well, without being downright perky. That's Donut's job."

Several moments passed, and Church's hands unclenched and his anger left as quickly as it came. He collapsed next to his friend, sitting up with one leg scrunched against his chest and the other stretched out.

"I… I guess you're right," he admitted. "But still, it doesn't seem to add up."

"How do you figure that?"

"I've been replaying the events over and over in my head, but one thing still doesn't make sense."

"And that would be…?"

"The explosion," Church clarified. "The real explosion came _after_ the ship disappeared."

"But Church, what other explanation could there be?" Tucker questioned. "I just don't see any possible reason that they aren't here right now besides that they got blown up."

"But that's just it. In all of this time that I've been searching, I haven't found a single piece of wreckage. No twisted scraps of metal, no scorched helmets, no dismembered body parts, no… anything."

"So _that's_ why you've been swiping the tank early in the morning and coming back around midnight?"

"I do _not_ come back at midnight!"

"Well, how the fuck should I know what time it is? The sun only sets here every few years!"

"The fact still remains that there isn't a damn piece of evidence that the ship ever existed, which doesn't make sense, right?"

"Did it ever cross your mind that maybe all of it was, y'know, vaporized and crap?" Tucker speculated.

"No… I never thought of that," Church confessed. "But still, I just can't shake this feeling that she's out there, that if I search long and hard enough, maybe a can find her."

Tucker looked like he was about to reply when a female voice from below cut him off. "Yo, Church! Tucker! What are you doin' up there?"

The two peered down at the ground to see a soldier in bright lemon-yellow armor gazing up at them.

"Oh, hey Sister," Tucker greeted. "Me and Church were just talkin', you know, hangin' out." Church stared at him for a second. Was this the same Tucker that had just made a respectable, intelligent argument just moments before?

"Well, then I guess I owe Doc ten bucks," the female rookie groaned. It amazed Church that no matter how sad she tried to sound, her tone was always reminiscent of a peppy cheerleader…

"Why do you owe Doc anything?"

"Oh, me and him made a bet," she clarified gleefully. "I bet him that you two were makin' out, and since you weren't an' all, I guess he wins!"

…it also amazed him at how her thickheaded and clueless demeanor was so akin to a cheerleader.

"…Remind me again why you're here," Church said, trying desperately to resist the temptation to stick her with a plasma grenade.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot!" she exclaimed as though she were oblivious to the fact that she had pissed off the sniper above on no small margin. "It's about Caboose."

"Oh no," Tucker griped. "Did he get his head stuck in the dryer again?"

"No."

"The vacuum cleaner?" Church guessed.

"No."

"The garbage disposal?" Tucker tried again, almost sounding hopeful.

"No; his new toy Shake 'n Bake oven."

"I knew that thing was a deathtrap…" Church muttered under his breath.

As they both were climbing down, Tucker commented, "Y'know, they should really be more specific with those warning label things."

"How so?" Sister asked as they both reached solid ground.

"Like instead of 'not intended for children three or younger', they should put 'not intended for those with the _intelligence_ of a three-year-old.'"

The three of them got a good laugh out of that.

When they were half-way to their base, Tucker abruptly turned and looked toward the caves. Church kept on walking, assuming that the hold up was for some idiotic reason or another. Sister, however, was concerned.

"Tucker… you okay?" Sister asked.

"Yeah," he said, pausing. "I just had the feeling that we were being watched."

"Were we?"

"No, I don't see anyone, and I have the best eyes in this whole fucking gulch!" he boasted, averting his eyes from the cave entrance. "I guess I'm just being paranoid."

"Would you two douchebags hurry it up?" Church yelled from the base's closest entrance. "You guys are slower than Grif!"

"Quit talking about my big brother, you fat bastard!" Sister shouted back.

The two of them started running back to the base, but Tucker slowed down and stopped completely. He glanced back at the cavern entrance and saw a figure in a brown, hooded robe looking back at him.

He blinked his eyes and shook his head. When he looked back at that spot, the figure was gone. Though he was slightly unnerved, he strolled into Blue base, clutching his head and muttering something about spending too much time at his rock.

* * *

At the mouth of the very cave that the Blue Army private was eyeing a moment before, there was a man-sized shimmer in the air, appearing similar to how faraway objects appeared warped in a heat wave. There was a small crackle of electricity, and a figure in a brown robes appeared.

The stranger was presumably female, judging from the form that the robe wrapped around. A hood covered the being's face, so no facial features could be seen. However, two silvery ponytails slithered out from either side of the head and draped over its chest, both fastened with three golden clasps each.

Several droning beeps emanated from inside its robes, and the individual reached within its folds with a wrinkled, human hand. When its right hand withdrew it held a small, microphone-like object about the length of a pen in its bony fingers. With a flick of a gaunt finger, the object came alive with the faintest hiss of static.

"Status report," a sophisticated male voice drawled from the machine.

"I have been here for almost half an Earth year, and I have yet to see anything out of the ordinary," the voice of an old woman lisped from beneath the hood.

"Then things must _really_ be going wrong," the voice replied.

"I meant out of the ordinary for _this_ backwater insane asylum of a planet," she corrected. "I also fear that I cannot stay here much longer. The womanizing one caught a brief glimpse of me, and I fear that those other weak-minded fools may get suspicious."

"You will stay there until your orders are carried out," said the man firmly.

"Yes, about that," the woman began. "I am seriously beginning to doubt the accuracy of your intelligence."

"You even said yourself that you sensed a disturbance in that area."

"Sir, this place _is_ disturbed, and on no small scale."

"I see that age may have whittled away your eyes, but not your wit," he stated dryly.

"Humor aside, yes, I do feel a disturbance in the Force, but in the flow of time? I think your contact may have exaggerated a bit."

"I highly doubt that Clockwork would have lied to me, madam."

"I don't quite see why you even trust that hooded specter."

"I trust you, don't I?" the man teased.

"If I wanted to be mocked, I would just call the shapeshifter."

"He's a bit preoccupied at the moment. The Head Cultivator caught him peeking into her shower for the third time this week. And you know how she gets when she's mad…"

"Why you don't fire that sick-minded buffoon is beyond even me," she sighed. "As I was saying, I have yet to see the wisdom in putting your faith in that phantom. He is as just as enigmatic and crafty as you or I, and he has yet to make the motives for his aid known."

"As you have done to others countless times. If I can trust you, I'm pretty sure I can trust him," the unseen person reassured.

"But he isn't even a member of the Disciples! For all we know, he could be secretly working for-!"

"Enough," the man on the other end interrupted calmly. "Have a little faith in me, won't you? There are a few things that even Clockwork does not know. And if he knows everything, what does that make me?"

"A more powerful being with a bigger ego," the old woman stated flatly.

"Touché," the man chuckled.

Suddenly, numerous claxons and alarms sounded on the other end of the connection. "Um, sorry, but I'm going to have to cut this session short. One of the Chimeras broke out of the Ecology Sector. Again."

With a click, the connection was severed. "Yes, Korozhi, whatever you say," the old woman whispered. With another crackle of electricity across her body, she disappeared once more, joining the shadows in the one place she truly belonged.

* * *

**There's the first chapter down. Now, I'd really appreciate your comments. I'd appreciate it even more if you're honest with me. What, do you think this penname is something random I pulled out of a hat?**

**The first and foremost thing I want you to look out for is me portraying the characters in an OOC (Out Of Character) fashion. I can't stress enough how important this is. Also, if you think I need to up the rating, tell me; I REALLY hope it doesn't come to that, though. Since there won't be any sex scenes of any kind, it probably WON'T come to that.**

**One last thing: if any of you can guess who the old woman was, you can probably guess where the Blood Gulchers will be crossing over to. Probably. It's not quite as obvious as other crossovers, however, so it most likely **_**isn't**_** the first thing that pops into your head. And yes, I **_**will**_** keep you guessing for the first few chapters.**


	2. The Message

**Sorry I haven't updated in so long. I've taken a trip halfway up the coast, had some morality issues to work out, finished The Deathly Hallows… you know, typical teenage stuff. That, and I honestly think I PM more than I write. My bad.**

**Also, in case any future readers are offended by my use of the term 'furry' in a negative manner last chapter, I'm going to clear that up right now so I won't have to later. Yes, I do know that a furry is someone who is a fan of franchises that have animals or humanoid animals play a major part (like Sly Cooper, Pok****é****mon, Star Fox, etc). I am also aware that the correct term for those sexually attracted to such fictional creatures is 'furvert.' The thing is, I highly doubt that the residents of Blood Gulch would know the difference between the two, hence the terminology last chapter. Sorry if I upset anyone.**

**And this message goes out to everyone: if you're going to read this, THEN LEAVE A DAMN REVIEW! I mean, some people even **_**favorited**_** this story and didn't even review! Am I the only one who thinks that's messed up?**

**Anyway, I'm not too sure about the quality of this chapter, but those of you who wanted to see Red Team will get your wish. Don't say I never did anything for you.**

**Disclaimer: Red vs. Blue and all affiliated characters are copyrighted property of Rooster Teeth Productions.**

**

* * *

**

Deep beneath Blood Gulch, one Private Franklin Delano Donut was surveying the cave system in Red Team's new ATV-like vehicle, the Mongoose. Per Sarge's orders, Donut was looking to see if anything of note was down there besides the huge computer, which he had been doing every day for a week.

Thus far, the pink armored soldier hadn't found a damn thing except for that strange hover tank he had shown to Sarge all those months ago. He had been ordered to claim it for their side and bring it back to base, but it was far too large to fit through any of the passages leading to the surface, much to Sarge's disappointment.

For the most part, Donut wasn't really even trying to look for anything. His thoughts were about how pissed his friends on would be. He hadn't updated his Harry Potter story in over eight-hundred years, and was worried that they would be even more ticked that he stopped right before the big yaoi scene between Harry and Draco Malfoy.

So there he was, trying to think of how he would explain to his fans that he was blown into the future by a combination of explosives and weather-control technology, when he arrived at the spot where he had left off his search the day before, and hopped out of the Mongoose.

After taking several steps, he stumbled onto the ground. Donut brushed the dust off of his light-red armor and noticed a gold, sharp object jutting out of the ground, barely the size of his thumb. He crawled over to it and tried to pick it up, hoping to use it as an excuse to stop searching for the day. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't get the small thing to budge. Finding no alternative, he started to dig.

A minute or so passed, Donut found that the small golden thing he had tripped over was part of something much larger. Several more minutes of excavating, and he had uncovered the entire object. He tentatively picked up the item and turned it over in his hands.

It was a small pyramid, the square base's sides measuring to just under the length from Donut's wrist to his middle finger and was about fifteen centimeters in height. The object had thick golden edges to each of its faces, and within those centimeter-long strips were various symbols and glyphs that weren't of any language that Donut knew of. The space in-between these lines of gold were composed of a smooth, almost glassy substance so black that it seemed to sap the color of everything around it.

The construct's apex, the part that he had tripped over, was completely gold for about two-and-a-half centimeters down. Each side of its summit had the same peculiar emblem made of the same obsidian material as the spaces below. The crest's most noticeable feature was the perfect disc in the center. This was flanked on either side by something that slanted inwards with three spikes, almost like angular wings or a toddler's depiction of mountains. The top and bottom point of those two 'wings' were the same length, were the ones in the center was noticeably longer than the others.

_I gotta show this to Sarge_, Donut thought, jumping back into the Mongoose with his find in hand. He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and started the long ascent back to the surface.

* * *

"Hey, Grif! Where are you? I don't hear any polishing! Or buffing! You know how I like the sound of buffing! Get buffin'!" Sarge shouted. He was on top of Red Base overlooking the canyon, searching for his slacker of a subordinate.

Growling, he looked into the base's hole in the roof to find Simmons in front of Red Team's new computer. "Simmons, have you seen Grif?"

"No sir, not recently," the maroon-armored private replied, not tearing his eyes away from the screen.

"Son of a-!" he nearly swore. "I told that lazy bastard to wash the Warthog!"

"I don't know what to tell you, sir," Simmons responded, still not turning to face his commander.

Sarge began to turn away, but looked back to Simmons and asked, "Hey, What're you doing there, anyway?"

Still not turning to regard his sergeant, he clarified, "I'm playing an old MMORPG called World of Warcraft, sir."

"MNOBDG…?" Sarge said, utterly confused.

"'MMORPG' stands for 'Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game'," Simmons explained. "It's a RPG video game that you play online. At the time it was made, one could only play with people all over Earth, but thanks to technological upgrades, now one can play with people all across known space."

"Um, remind me what an RPG is," Sarge ordered, trying not to sound clueless, and failing miserably.

Simmons sighed. "It's a game set in a fictional universe where people create their own characters and adventure through various places, typically slaying monsters, gathering treasure, and swindling hopeless noobs out of money. And before you ask, a noob is a player completely new to the game and/or has no idea how to play it well."

Sarge stared dumbfounded at his underling for a second before recovering. "Uh… I knew that! I was just testing ya'!"

"Yes sir, of course you were, sir."

"I'm gonna go look for Grif," the red-armored sergeant grunted, walking away. "If I get my hands on that slacker I'll…"

After Simmons was sure that his superior was out of earshot, he whispered, "Okay, it's safe to come out now."

With those words of reassurance, the supposedly missing soldier in orange armor crawled out from underneath the computer table.

"Thanks for covering for me," the man breathed as he sat himself on the floor

"Just make sure to hold up your end of the deal," the maroon-clad Private said firmly, turning to face him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Grif groaned, recalling their agreement. "'No smoking, drinking, over-eating, or other activities harmful to the organs of Dick Simmons for a full week.'"

"But, I mean, come on," Grif continued. "I'm going to start doing that stuff all over again after the week is up, so why bother?"

"Because you're using _my_ organs, idiot," Simmons responded. "I want to delay any damage to them, even if I can't stop they're inevitable destruction due to an unhealthy asshole like you misusing them."

"You really think I'm going to believe that?" the other man said, standing up.

"Believe what?" a gruff voice beside them queried.

"Oh, hell…" Grif sighed. He turned to look straight down the barrel of a shotgun and, sure enough, Sarge was the one holding it.

"I knew I'd find you eventually! Good job Simmons!" he congratulated.

"Thank you, sir!" Simmons said.

"Wait, Simmons didn't even do anything!" the draftee in orange protested.

"Of course he did! He cleverly distracted you, allowing me to take you by surprise!"

"But we were just talking! He had no idea that you were even still here!"

"GUYS!" a voice shouted from behind them.

It was at that point that they noticed Donut's presence. They had been so absorbed in their argument that they didn't hear the Mongoose pull up or notice him enter the room.

"What in God's name are you doin' up here, Private? You're supposed to be in the caves gathering intel!" Sarge scolded.

"I know, but look what I found!" Donut said excitedly, holding out the pyramid he had been clutching to his chest.

"Lemme see that," Grif said impatiently, swiping the object from Donut's hands.

"Grif, remember our little talk earlier?" Donut prodded like a testy mother.

"Alright, _please_ lemme see that!" the soldier in orange spat impatiently before inspecting the thing in his hands. Even though it was made of some kind of metal, the small pyramid was actually warm to the touch. "Donut, did you do anything to this thi-?"

Grif was suddenly cut off when item in his hands began to glow bright red, the light shining through the no-longer black material. It then started emitting loud, droning beeps at seemingly random intervals.

"Grif, what the hell did you do?" asked a shocked Simmons as he got up from his chair, backing up against the wall with Sarge and Donut as if the foreign relic were going to explode any second.

"I didn't do a damn thing!" the bewildered Private shouted back.

"Hm… It sounds like Morris Code," Donut wondered aloud, getting over his own initial surprise.

"Morse," Simmons corrected irritably.

"Or," Sarge growled threateningly, "it's an alien artifact psychically communicating with us, slowly and discreetly turning us into mind-slaves for the secret overlords of the universe!"

"Sir, I think that might just be _little_ unlikely," Simmons cautioned. He was, of course, ignored.

"The only hope to reverse the process is to kill the moron who brought this doom upon us in the first place!" Sarge brazenly theorized, pointing his shotgun at Grif again.

"What? That doesn't even make any sense!" Grif objected, still holding the beeping artifact in his hands.

"Sarge, why don't we focus on figuring out what this thing is and what it's saying?" Simmons tried to reason.

"But if we wait too long, then we'll all become brain-dead zombies under the servitude of slimy monstrosities! Well, at least you, me, and Donut will. Not sure of what Grif'll become. I don't think there's anything dumber than a worthless turd."

Right on the draw, Donut ventured, "Yeah, but that would mean Grif would _also_ be suffering untold horrors at the hand of possibly queer extraterrestrials."

Of course, while this notion this made Grif's stomach blanch, Sarge found it, eerily enough, optimistic. "Nice job thinking on the bright side of things! Good work, Pinky Pants!"

"Thanks, sir!"

"Now get to translatin' that thingamajig, Simmons," Sarge ordered the maroon-clad soldier.

"Sir, I don't even know the first thing about Morse Code!" Simmons exclaimed.

"Yeah, Sarge. None of us know how," Grif reminded. "In fact, nobody in this whole fucking canyon knows except… for…" Grif and Simmons both looked at each other, realization dawning on both of their faces.

"Sarge, we need to go to Blue Base."

* * *

Over on the other side of the canyon, Church was leaning against the parapets on top of Blue Base, lazily examining the sights on his sniper rifle for the umpteenth time that day. Tucker was sitting on the edge of the base's roof with his feet dangling while he blankly stared out at the canyon. Behind him, Sister was practicing numerous gymnastics tricks. Down below, Doc was inspecting Caboose to see if his recent Shake 'n Bake fiasco had given him any permanent damage.

To put it simply, they were all bored out of their minds. It had been that way for the past month, and since getting killed by the Reds wasn't on any of their to-do lists, they had reduced themselves to a state of stagnation.

"Hey, Church?" Sister asked, performing a back flip onto one of the spires on the base's roof.

"What?" he acknowledged grouchily, still scrutinizing the sniper rifle.

"You're a ghost, right?"

"You notice this just now?" He received a glare from Tucker, and he let out a, "Yes."

"Well," Sister began, now precariously balancing on one hand. "Why do you keep coming back? I mean, this place totally sucks!"

Restraining a biting remark, he clarified, "Because there is no doubt in my mind that I would end up in Hell."

"Hey, guys, sorry to interrupt your little chat, but we got company," Tucker warned, standing up and bringing his SMG to bear.

Looking through his sniper rifle, Church saw that the all-too-familiar Warthog and the purple hovercraft were headed in their direction. To Church's chagrin, the Warthog was also blaring its usual ranchera music.

"It's bad enough that they have infinite ammo, but do they _have_ to play that fucking Latino crap?" Tucker asked.

"I'm pretty sure that it's Mexican," Sister stated as she somersaulted off the base's ramparts and joined her teammates.

"I don't understand. Why are the Mario Brothers trying to kill us?" Caboose queried as he grabbed onto the ledge of the sunroof and hauled himself up.

"A little help?" Doc requested. Caboose knelt down and pulled the man in purple onto the roof as well.

"Hey, Reds! What the fuck are you doing over here?" Tucker shouted when the approaching Red forces stopped in front of their base. Thankfully, they also turned off that blasted music to communicate better.

"I know you aren't going to believe us, but we need help with something!" Simmons, in the Warthog's gunner position, called back.

"Why the hell should we help you douchebags?" Church hollered. "We've got a tank; we could easily wipe you guys out!"

"We don't really need _your_ help!" Grif yelled from the passenger's seat. "It's my sister we need!"

"Uh-uh, no way! No take-backs, remember?" Church reminded.

"What exactly do you need her for, anyway?" Doc spoke up. "Cause if it's anything violent, I can't allow you to have her in good conscience."

"Aw, you're so sweet," Sister cooed.

"Stay away from my sister, Poindexter!" Grif screamed angrily, getting out of the Warthog and aiming his battle rifle at the medic in purple. Donut hopped out of the hovercraft and grabbed on to the enraged private from behind.

"Let go of me, Donut!"

"Now, now, Grif, we're going to need to teach you how to control that temper of yours," Donut admonished, still pinning him in a firm bear hug.

"I know a few therapy techniques that could help," the medic offered.

"What, you also learn to be a shitty psychologist at Jamaica State?" Tucker quipped.

There was a loud bang, and everyone froze. They all turned their attention to Sarge, who had his shotgun in the air. "Now that I've got yer attention, we can finally stop lollygagging and get to the point!"

"Now," he said, jumping out of the Warthog and turning to the people on Blue Base. "I don't really like the idea of working with you Blue bastards, but right now my curiosity is gettin' the better of me. And no, my curiosity isn't about Grif's true species, or Donut's inner sexuality, or anything of the sort! What I want to know about is this!"

He reached into the Warthog and pulled out a pyramid with gold trim that glowed with an inner red light. It was beeping continuously, making Church cringe inwardly when he was reminded of O'Malley.

"From what my sources-"

"An ass-kissing sci-fi nerd," Grif muttered as Donut released him, earning a death glare from the maroon-armored soldier.

"-tell me, this here gizmo is using Morris Code-"

"Morse," Simmons corrected impatiently.

"-to broadcast some kind of message," Sarge continued, ignoring Simmons. "As you know, the only person in this canyon who knows Morris Code is Lil' Miss Sunshine over there."

The other Blues all gaped at Sister, who shrugged. Sarge continued, "In return for helping us decode whatever message this doohickey is transmitting-"

"We'll do it."

Sarge, along with the rest of Blue Team, stared at the speaker. "…Say that again," the southerner in scarlet requested.

"We'll. Do. It," Church repeated slowly as if talking to a three-year-old.

The Red Army officer began to stammer. "B-but you haven't even heard the terms, or negotiated, or-"

"I don't care. We'll do it anyway."

All of Red Team glanced at each other nervously, before Simmons turned back and said, "Alright, we're coming in."

As the Reds exited their vehicles, Tucker pulled Church aside and whispered, "Dude, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm not even really part of Blue Team, and even I can see that this isn't such a good idea," Doc cautioned.

"Don't worry," Church reassured. "We've all been bored to the point of committing suicide, right? Well, now we have something to do."

"Yay! I get to see Colonel McMuffins again!" Caboose cheered.

"Colonel McMuffins?" Sister and Doc questioned in unison, both looking to Tucker for an explanation.

"It's his name for Donut. They sort of became friends a while back," Tucker clarified.

"Hey, Blues," Simmons called from the base below. "Get down here and start translating, you cockbites!"

"Let's get this over with," Tucker sighed.

They all jumped down into the base, Caboose letting out a small "yay" as he did so.

"Alright, I'll need paper, a pencil, and that weird thingamabob you guys got," Sister instructed. After getting her required materials, she sat down at a desk, listening intently to the device's various beeping, writing something down every so often.

"Where did you guys find this thing anyway?" Doc asked the Reds.

"There's a funny story about that…" Donut started

"Would you guys shut up?" Sister shouted. "I'm trying to concentrate here!"

"Right, sorry," Donut whispered apologetically. He turned back to the rest of the residents of Blood Gulch. "Now, here's what happened…"

* * *

"…and that's when we came here to translate. The End."

Donut had finally finished his long tale, and all of the Blood Gulchers were staring at him.

"…That was so full of Indiana Jones rip-offs that I'm surprised he didn't grow a cowboy hat half-way through," Simmons stated, breaking the silence.

"And I thought Angelina Jolie's cameo was a _little_ over the top," Doc commented.

"Done!"

All of those present turned to find Sister rising from her seat, looking at the piece of paper she had used with satisfaction.

"So, what does it say?" Donut queried.

"Well, the first part I translated was mostly weird numbers and measurements, along with a list of things I've never even heard of. Sorry, but it's all Geek to me."

"Could I see that?" Simmons asked, holding a hand out. Sister handed him the piece of paper and he slapped the side of his head in amazement. "Oh my God!"

"What is it, Simmons? An alien torture device?" Sarge guessed.

"A super weapon?" Church ventured.

"A machine that can clone hot chicks?" Tucker tried.

"A gas-powered, internet-enabled blow-dryer?" It was at this point that everyone stared at Caboose, except for Simmons, who was still gawking at the sheet in front of him.

"I'm not really sure what all this stuff will do when put together," Simmons admitted. "But this is one impressive piece of tech! Whatever it does, it must be something big!"

"Simmons, not knowing something?" Grif gasped in mock amazement. "Someone call the fucking New York Times, I think we got the story of the year!"

"Shut up, asshole," Simmons snapped.

"Is that it? Just a design for some new-fangled gadget?" Sarge asked Sister, mildly disappointed.

"No, that's not even the _half_ of it!" she said excitedly. "There's a message on here… but it's just too bizarre to be real!"

"Aha! I told you it was the aliens!" Sarge then looked skyward and exclaimed, "Oh mighty overlords of the universe, I accept your lordly lordliness! Please except this human sacrifice as proof of my unwavering devotion!"

"Oh God…" Grif sighed as he found himself at the business end of a shotgun once again.

"No, it isn't from any aliens!"

Sarge put down his shotgun, mumbling things that sounded like 'spoilsport' and killjoy'.

"Well? Who's it from?" Doc pressed.

"You aren't going to believe this, but it's… it's from Tex."

Church's heart probably would have skipped a beat if he still had one. Hell, it probably would have stopped altogether. Did he really hear what he thought he heard? Could Tex actually still be alive?

Tucker was the first to break the silence. "No, seriously, who sent this thing?"

"I _am_ serious!" she insisted. "It even has a verification code: five-two-two. Do those numbers mean anything to you guys?"

_It couldn't be…_

"She's alive…"

Tucker turned to his comrade. "What?"

"Are you saying that _you_ have the secret to these magic numbers, Blue?" Sarge asked skeptically.

"May twenty-second," he breathed, hardly believing what he was saying, "was the night of our first date."

An uneasy silence fell upon the group.

"B-but," Simmons stammered, "t-that defies all logic! There's simply no _way_ anyone could have survived that explosion! No _way!_"

"Simmons," Grif said coolly. "You've been turned into a cyborg, I've had all of my guts removed and replaced with yours by a trigger-happy sergeant-"

"I've been forced to go on a quest to save an alien race and ended up getting pregnant," Tucker interrupted.

"I've been taken over by a malevolent computer virus intent on the conquest and/or destruction of the universe," Doc added.

"I've been blown up by a fuzzy blue spider and had a spaceship land on me," Donut said.

"I got stuck in a creek with a bunch of religious fanatics who worshipped a flag and tried to kill me over it," Sarge reminded.

"-and you just NOW say that something defies logic?" Grif finished exasperatedly.

Simmons said nothing.

Sister, however, did. "Wow, you're a cyborg?"

"Yeah," Simmons responded meekly.

"Cool! Hey, does that mean you have an iron di-?"

"SISTER! How many times do I have to tell you?" Grif interrupted angrily.

Sister sighed and recited along with him, "Don't embarrass the family."

At this point, however, the only one who was embarrassed was the maroon cyborg.

"Did it say _why_ Tex sent this thing?" Church asked.

"Oh, yeah," she said as if nothing happened. "She said that all we have to do is build and use this thing, and then she'll find us!"

"But what exactly does it _do_?" Tucker queried.

"It doesn't really say; weird, huh?"

Sarge slung his shotgun over his back and stated, "Well, now that we know this thing doesn't involve us, we'll just be goin' now-"

"Oh no, you don't!" Church exclaimed, putting the end of his sniper rifle centimeters away from the sergeant's face. "You're going to help us build this thing!"

"What reason in Hell would we have to help you?" Sarge growled.

Church glanced meaningfully at Tucker. The cyan-clad private got the message and withdrew his SMG, putting the gun's muzzle a hairsbreadth away from Grif's jugular. Following his lead, Sister took out her pistol and pressed it to the side of Simmons' head while Caboose aimed his battle rifle at Donut.

"Well, there's your reason, bitches," Church said smugly. Church was lucky that looks couldn't kill, because Sarge was sending plenty of hate his way at that moment.

Doc started to fret. "Guys, isn't there a peaceful, non-violent way to solve-?"

"Can it!" Church barked. The purple-armored medic promptly shut up.

"Simmons," Donut started nervously, "Why don't you start building that doohickey? Like, right now?"

"What?" Simmons cried out despite the gun at his head. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"I thought you said that it was an impressive piece of tech?" Grif asked, not taking his eyes off firearm in front of him.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I can actually _build_ it! We don't even have _half_ of these things! I mean, a cathode radiator tube? Where the _fuck_ am I gonna get one of those?"

"Don't know. Don't care," Church said icily. "As long as you get this thing finished, I don't really give a damn."

"Simmons, why don't you try our computer back at the base?" Donut tried. "Don't we have internet access?"

"What, you guys have a computer?" Tucker shouted. "Where the fuck did you get one of those way out here?"

"We used the parts from Lopez's head and some spare parts from the Warthog," Sarge stated proudly, momentarily forgetting his predicament.

"You killed Lopez?" Doc asked, breaking his vow of silence.

"Hey, he refused to speak English-"

"And whose fault was that?" Grif accused.

"-and we got the plans that we needed from 'im. Far as I could tell, he was dead weight as he was then."

"But don't worry," Simmons reassured Doc. "I transferred his AI into the computer, so he's just fine."

"Ahem," Church cleared his throat, reminding everyone of the current situation.

"Anyway," Simmons continued. "I guess I could get in touch with all of my contacts on the Internet, but I'll need to find someone to deliver the parts _and_ someone who's an expert in electronics. Everything said and done, it could take anywhere from a couple of days to a month."

"Aren't _you_ an expert?" Sister asked, confused.

"No, I'm only moderately good at this stuff, just enough to keep the base running," Simmons confessed. "But in order to pull this off, we'll need someone who's dedicated their whole career, possibly their whole _life,_ to the mechanized arts."

"So basically a Simmons times ten?" Grif sighed. "Great, just what we need around here…"

"Oh, shut up, cockbite."

"So you're saying that this _can_ be done?" Church pressed.

"Yeah, but as I said, it'll take a while. So if you'll just let us go-"

"Oh no, we're going with you. We're not going to give you the chance to get out of this one," Church declared. "Caboose, grab the tank. I'll be driving the jeep. If one of you guys have a problem with that, you can _walk_ back," he added after he saw Sarge about to argue.

They all filed out of the base, the Reds each having a weapon of some kind to their backs. As he was getting into the passenger's seat of the Warthog, Grif muttered, "How come I have a feeling this is going to end in disaster?"

Church said nothing as he pressed down on the gas pedal, but he also had that feeling. That feeling that things were going to go very wrong, _very_ fast.

He shook his head. Nobody but them were anywhere near Blood Gulch, and the Reds were being held at gunpoint. They knew all of the exits and entrances to the canyon, so if anyone else were to come, they could make a quick getaway.

What could _possibly_ go wrong?

* * *

**Can anybody here say 'Murphy's Law'?**

**Like last time, I'd like to be notified of anyone acting OOC. But now I'd also appreciate someone notifying me if I got any canon facts wrong. I think that the Blood Gulchers got blown roughly eight-hundred years into the future after the events at Sidewinder, but I'm not too sure. Could someone please confirm or disprove this?**

**On a closing note, don't expect me to update any time soon. I'm going on **_**another**_** trip even **_**farther**_** up the coast on Sunday, and I'll be gone for eight days. After that, I'll try to update faster, but I'm not making any promises.**


	3. Meet the Omegas

**I'm finally back! Sorry, but I had old friends to visit halfway up the freaking continent and a mini family reunion to attend. The only thing I really got out of the whole ordeal was that I learned that I love lobster. I also got struck by tons of inspiration, but sadly for another fanfic. Maybe I'll write it in the future, but I need to finish this one first, and that'll take a while.**

**Anyway, some of you are probably wondering about the chapter title, specifically who the Omegas are. Team Omega is the group of soldiers that star in the machinima called, creatively enough, "Omega Team." I think it's pretty good, and it is, according to machinima(dot)com, the second most popular Halo-based comedy next to Red vs. Blue.**

**The thing is, it was officially announced after its first season that there would be no more episodes of Omega Team. As some of you did with the finale of Red vs. Blue, I found the ending of Omega Team a little disappointing. So, I'm going to try to do my best at giving **_**both**_** of them a more satisfactory conclusion. Yes, this **_**is**_** one of this story's crossovers, but it certainly isn't the main one, so don't worry.**

**I'd really appreciate it if some of you watched Omega Team all the way through (only 21 episodes) so I could have a few advisors for OOCness, and so you could know what was going on. Or you could just keep reading and ask me later. Or you could just try to piece it together yourselves; it doesn't really matter to me.**

**Disclaimer: Red vs. Blue, Omega Team, and all affiliated characters, organizations, and locations belong to Rooster Teeth Productions and Random Outburst Productions, respectively.**

* * *

On the remote ice moon of Centauri VIII, far away from the destructive wars taking place at the center of the galaxy, stood one incredibly bored soldier. He was sitting on the railing of the wall that surrounded the base he and his five-man squad inhabited, smoking inside his helmet like he usually did. His feet were dangling over the side of the base, about a dozen meters above the colorless snow that carpeted the ground.

The man was clad in dark blue armor with black trim showing in several spots. On either of his upper arms and between his shoulder blades was a white bull's-eye symbol, signifying his role as a sharpshooter. He had his trademark sniper rifle strung diagonally across his back via the magnets that his suit was outfitted with.

"Private Romano, what the hell are you doing?" a voice barked behind him.

The man in blue turned to look over his shoulder to find another man carrying a battle rifle coming up the ramp toward him. This soldier had armor similar to the first, but he had bright green instead of blue. And where Romano had a bull's-eye, this person had a white shield sporting a blue bird with outstretched wings.

"Just having a smoke, Sergeant Cleveland," Romano replied lazily, pivoting his body so he was facing his superior completely.

"Well I sure hope you're enjoying your downtime, jackass, because you're _supposed_ to be down there helping unload contraband!" Cleveland said irritably, motioning toward the level below.

Burying his face in one hand and shaking his head, Romano groaned, "Do I have to, sir? I mean, it looks like José and Ace have got it covered."

"In case you haven't noticed, Romano, we're on our own now," the other man reminded. "So if we're going to get through this without getting our asses killed, we're _all_ going have to work together!"

"Alright, sir, be right there," the soldier in blue sighed as he stood up. He swiftly popped open his visor, snatched the cigarette in his mouth, and tossed off the side of the wall.

He strolled down the ramp, and saw a bit of activity going on. Two soldiers were relieving a parked Pelican drop ship of its cargo, one man in red and the other in a dark purple. They also had symbols on their shoulders and backs; the red one had a write disc with a black poker spade on it, while the man in purple had an orange-and-yellow vortex. The man from earlier, Sergeant Cleveland, was keeping his battle rifle trained on two tied-up men in tan armor. The last person that was present was a man in orange sitting in the snow with his back against a large green crate off to the side, gazing at a laptop. This individual's insignia was a circular 'radioactive' symbol with white where the yellow would normally be and light green where the black would.

"Oh, hey Lucky," the man in purple said in greeting.

"What are you talking about, José?" the individual in crimson asked, with his back to Patrick "Lucky" Romano. When he turned around, he exclaimed, "There you are! It's about fucking time!"

"Whatever, Ace," Lucky said. "Now let's just get this over with."

After several minutes of grunt work, Ace complained, "Sir, why isn't Deano unloading?"

"Yeah, wouldn't this go a helluva lot faster if he helped?" Lucky added.

"Because, Corporal Stallion, Private Roberts over there is tracking Lord Pernicious' movements through Superspace," Cleveland explained. "Aren't you, Roberts?" The man in orange didn't reply. "Roberts?" Still no reply. "Dean Jackass Roberts, do you copy?"

"Oh, yeah sir, I'm on it," Dean replied lazily.

"You okay, Dean?" José asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Everyone let the subject drop. Well, verbally. Ace, however, was curious. When he was carrying another box out of the ship, he just _happened_ to pass by the crate that Dean was leaning against, and his eyes _accidently_ wandered to the screen of his laptop. He couldn't decide whether to laugh in amazement or to gag in revulsion at what he saw. So he did neither.

Instead, he put the box down in the pile near the door to the basement, and when Romano passed by with his load, he whispered, "Dude, check out what's on Dean's laptop."

Ace didn't need X-ray vision to tell that Romano was perplexed. Curious, Lucky did exactly what Ace did, but he unintentionally stopped and stared at the screen several seconds before walking again. Surprisingly, Dean didn't even notice this, or if he did, he was very good at hiding it.

Lucky met Ace back in the basement and said, "Did I just see…?"

Ace simply nodded his head.

"And does that mean he's a-?"

"Most likely."

Romano paused for a moment before saying slyly, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we swipe his computer and _totally_ embarrass him?"

"Oh yeah."

With the agreement made, the two exited the basement and crept up behind Dean. When José looked like he was about to ask what the hell they were doing, Lucky held a finger up to the chin of his helmet as if to say 'shhh' and motioned for him to come over. José did so, though he wasn't quite sure what was going on.

They all leaned over the crate that their target had his back against, and Ace held up three fingers and started counting down. Three… two… one…

Romano snatched the laptop, earning a "Hey!" from Dean. Said soldier in orange started to get up to pursue, but was tackled by Ace. "Get off me, you Ace-hole!"

José was just standing behind the crate, confused. "Um… what am I supposed to be doing?"

"You could help me out here!" Ace growled as he struggled to keep Dean pinned to the ground. José did as instructed, still having no idea what was going on.

"Hey, Your Royal Anus," Dean started slyly. "You do realize how gay this looks, don't you?" Realizing what Dean meant, José got off him in disgust, and Ace momentarily loosened his hold in shock, which was all Dean needed to wriggle free.

Too late. Romano had already reached Sergeant Cleveland, who barked, "Private Romano, Private García, Corporal Stallion, what is the meaning of this?"

"Take a look at what Dean was doing, against your orders, I might add," Lucky said smugly as Dean, José, and Ace arrived on the scene.

"You're all a bunch of pussies, you know that?" Dean huffed.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Ace stated nonchalantly.

Cleveland inspected the image in front of him before adressing his orange-clad subordinate. "Private Roberts, care to explain what this… obscenity is?"

"What obscenity? Lemme see!" Private García requested. He stared several seconds before saying, "Oohhh, busted."

"Oh, shut up, José," Dean spat.

"I don't have all day, Roberts," Cleveland reminded.

Dean sighed in defeat. "It's a website called yiffstar, sir. It's a porn site."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Sherlock," Romano remarked, before adding, "Oh, God, I think I'm gonna hurl."

"What the hell are these things, anyway?" Ace asked.

"I know these guys," José stated simply. "That one's Renamon, a de facto sex icon from the multi-million dollar franchise, Digimon. And that one's Mew, a Legendary from another uber-successful franchise, Pokémon. And there's Mewtwo, Mew's male clone from the very first Pokémon movie that was released in 1999. Oh, they even threw Lucario in there. He was the main character in the eighth Pokémon movie, I believe."

By then, everyone was staring dumbfounded at their comrade in purple.

"You know, the one they released in 2006?" Still, nobody said anything. "…What? Do I have something on my visor?"

Ace was the first one to find his voice. "José, do I even want to know why you know that?"

"Hey, I know all the classics."

"Classics?" Lucky repeated speculatively. "Those were just some retarded Japanese cartoons from like, a thousand years ago!"

"Anime, dude, not Japanese cartoon. If you're going to insult the most successful franchises in human history, at least use the right terminology," José admonished.

"Private García's taste in shows and Private Roberts' taste in porn aside, what the hell where you thinking disobeying my orders, Private?" Cleveland didn't give Dean a chance to answer. "You weren't thinking, that's what! Now haul ass back over there and hack into the Federation surveilance network like you were supposed to do an hour ago!"

"Yes sir, right on it sir," Dean said grudgingly, taking back his laptop and going back to lean against the same crate he had before.

"What? You can't do that!" one of the bound men in tan protested. "That violates Article Five, Section A-"

"-Sub-section Seven of Federation Military law, which states that any attempt to hack into the even the smallest and most insignificant of files will result in court-martial and possible dishonorable discharge," Cleveland finished for him. "The thing is, we're no longer Federation lackeys like you are, so we don't have to abide by their rules. We're our own army now."

The other man in tan scoffed. "An army of five? How do you expect to go up against thousands of Federation soldiers with only five men?"

"We don't intend to," Ace said. "We're going after Lord Pernicious, or as the Federation might call him, Dudley."

Though they couldn't see past their visors, they could tell that the two Federation pilots' eyes widened. "Dudley? THE Dudley? Founder and leader of the Replicants Dudley?"

"You guys are nuts!" the other exclaimed. "You'll have a hundred clones all over your suicidal asses before you get within a mile of the guy!"

"Yeah, well last time they fucked with us, they had their asses handed to them," José bragged.

"Yeah, _after_ they took our sergeant prisoner and had us hiding in our basement, gaurding a bunch of crap intel!" Lucky said condescendingly. "Not to mention that several of their clone soldiers mutinied! Face it, guys; if Dudley had known how many of us there were, what we were capable of, and if those clones hadn't defected, then we'd have been screwed."

"So, what's your point?" José queried.

"My point," Lucky started frustratedly, "is that he knows we're after him now, he knows there are only five of us, and exactly what tricks we have."

Before anyone else could argue, Dean shouted, "Hey, sir? I think I got something you should check out!"

"What is it, Deano?" Ace called back. "Your furry boyfriend break up with you?"

"Ha ha, very funny. Seriously, I think you guys should check this out!"

The three subordinates looked over to their superior, who shrugged. They all trudged over and Sergeant Cleveland said, "What do you have, Private Roberts?"

"Okay, I've got an email from someone asking for our help. They need some parts as well as a tech expert, also known as your's truly."

"And this matters to us… how?" Ace said.

"Well, we are mercenaries now, after all, and they are willing to pay us."

"How much, exactly?" Lucky queried tentatively.

"Whatever we ask." They all could just sense the smug smile on Dean's face while he said that.

"Sorry to spoil your delusions of grandeur, but while that does sound tempting, this isn't going to help us catch Lord Pernicious," Cleveland reamarked. "Now would you mind following my orders for once and track his movements?"

"Well, sir, that's where things get interesting," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Lord Pernicious' flagship, the Discriminator, is heading to a certain remote planet far from galactic civilization, the very same planet that this request is coming from."

Everyone was quiet for a moment before Cleveland barked, "Alright, pack up, men, we're going on a roadtrip! Private García, load all of our weapons and ammo into that drop ship, ASAP!"

"Yes sir!" said private saluted before taking off to carry out his assignment.

"Private Roberts, send a message warning our new employers of the Replicant's invasion, and then make sure that ship is in prime flight condition before we take off. We don't want to be stranded in deep space when we're needed as the calvalry."

"I'm on it, Sergeant Cleveland," Dean acknowledged as he started to type at a rapid pace.

"Corporal Stallion, Private Romano, get our provisions onboard, with as much extra as you can. We don't know how long this battle's going to take."

"Yes sir, I'll get right to it, sir," Ace said, also saluting.

Lucky, however, was a bit less willing. "But sir, we just unloaded the damn thing! Besides, it's the five of us against a whole fucking army!"

"Private, did I give you permission to bitch?" Cleveland snapped. "Now you haul your ass over there and do as you're told!" The officer in green promptly walked away toward the two captured pilots, leaving Lucky fuming.

"Why the hell does nobody ever listen to me?" he shouted to nobody in particular.

"Because you're a fucking crybaby, that's why," Dean responded, his fingers still not missing a beat as they flew across the keyboard. "I mean, listen to you!" He then preceded to mock him by repeating what he said with a very high pitched voice followed by gibberish, in typical childish manner.

Growling, Romano walked off and carried out his orders, thinking, _Man, why didn't I quit when I had the chance?_

* * *

In deep space, far from the ball of ice and snow that was Centauri VIII, on the bridge of the renowned starship the Discriminator, one aggravated man sat in the captain's chair. His armor was white with red trim, and he had a crimson skull-and-crossbones symbol as his personal emblem. His head was against one of his hands and the fingers of his other hand were thruming impatiently on the arm of his throne.

Around him, dozens of soldiers in dark grey armor were scuttling about, checking equipment and any other tasks that they were assigned to. They all looked exactly alike, save for the numbers in various colors on their backs and shoulders.

"Lord Pernicious, our drones have returned from their recon of the target planet. I think we found something," one of the crewman said, turning in their chair to face the man in white.

"'Something'? Well, that's real specific," he sarcastically responded in his faint British accent. "Red Seventy-eight, would you care to tell me what that 'something' is?"

"W-well, your Lordship," the clone stammered, "let me just bring the images on screen."

"Oh yes, do bring it on screen," he insenserely requested. He was thoroughly unconvinced it was anything important, but it was something to do while he waited for a progress report from his associate.

A large, flat screen dropped down from the ceiling. It flickered to life, showing a three-dimensional image of the planet they intended to land on.

It had many more continents than Earth did, mostly covered by grassy plains, and the land-to-sea ratio seemed roughly equal. The camera began to zoom in to one of the planet's few mountain ranges. There were numerous valleys there that appeared seperated from one another, almost appearing like potholes in a road. One was a small desert; due to the metal wreckage, it most likely got that way due to a large starship crashing into it. Another valley adjacent to it was a large swamp, and by the way that some clusters of trees seemed taller than others, it probably had a few hills underneath. There was one particularly tall mountain next to that, and it had a large dent in its peak that looked to be in perpetual winter, indicating that it might have once been a volcano. Amongst all the swirling snow in this imprint, there was a large temple-like structure made of grey metal of a design that seemed familiar. Far from the others was a small building that seemed to be made of sand-colored stone and metal. This small fortress was built into the face of a cliff and was facing a beach next to the ocean. It had one outer wall made of the same sand-colored rock and an inner wall made of metal, the latter of which had a gigantic windmill-like spinning blade that went so slow that it couldn't honestly hurt anybody.

The camera continued to zoom in on one canyon that was at the center of them all. Vegatation was scarce there; a cluster of pine trees and large patches of grass seemed to be the sum of the area's plant life. A field of large boulders off to the side of the box canyon seemed to be the aftermath of a rockslide from long ago. The most interesting feature of this place was the two bases that were on opposite ends of the canyon; they were mostly identical, the only differences being that one glowed with blue lights and sported blue flags and the other had the same only with red.

"Red Seventy-eight, wasn't I told earlier that this planet was deserted?" Lord Pernicious asked innocently, a bit overly so.

"Y-you were, Your Viciousness," the crewman stuttered. "But it wasn't always, you see. That canyon used to be a front for the Red and Blue Wars a century or so ago, hence the two bases."

Lord Pernicious thought for a moment why someone would fight for a box canyon on such a remote planet, but he dismissed the question. "I didn't send those drones out there so you could give me a history lesson, Seventy-eight. Get to the point."

"Y-yes, sir." Lord Pernicious just rolled his eyes at his subordinate's spinelessness.

"Well, the thing is," he continued, "The planet has been deserted for some time, as we said, because both the Red and Blue forces there mysteriously dissapeared, spawning a few g-ghost stories about the place. No ships, Replicant or Federation, have ever gone there. But still, we've picked up radio transmissions and other various activity coming from h-here."

At this, the camera zoomed in once more to the base covered in red lights. Sure enough, several people could be seen patrolling the roof of the base. All of them had the same model of armor that every Replicant wore, except for the difference in color; there was a person in a dark cerulean blue, another in aqua, and a third in a yellow so bright that it could make a goth's eyes bleed. Every one of them was armed, which only further complicated things.

Pernicious rubbed his helmeted chin in thought before reasoning, "If what you say is true, then who could these people be?"

"That we d-don't know, Your Gloriousness. But r-rest assured, we are hacking into every known database in the galaxy to find out."

"I don't think that that will be nesessary," Lord Pernicious said as he sat upright and crossed one leg over the other. "Why don't we just hear about it from them? Straight from the horse's mouth, as some might say?"

Before the clone could reply, Lord Pernicious pressed a button on his helmet and spoke over the ship's intercom, "All hands, prepare for a small-scale land battle. We have some interlopers on the surface of the planet that we made our rendezvous point. I want as many of them as possible captured alive. That is all."

As Lord Pernicious switched off the intercom function, he heard a voice with a faint Transylvanian accent say, "Your timing is impeccable, My Liege. Now we can put the fruits of our hard work to the test."

Pernicious swung his chair around to find a man separate from all of his clones. His armor was a sickly olive green that one could find to be reminiscent of poison. The emblem that he held was unique, to say the least. It was in skull-and-crossbones style, but it had a red-and-white capsule pill in the stead of a skull and twin medical syringes with hypodermic needles where the bones would normally be.

"Ah, Professor Köblös, I trust that Project Judicium goes well?" the Replicant leader asked.

The olive-clad man bowed. "Yes, My Lord. My team and I have already produced a hundred units, and more are on the way as we speak."

Though nobody could see it past his visor, Pernicious grinned evilly at that. He switched on the intercom again and said, "Attention all clone foot soldiers. Scratch that last note about preparing for battle; I have myself some new toys, and I'd like to test them out. That is all."

He swirled around to face the rest of the bridge. "Now, all I need you tech-geeks to do is prepare that EMP charge and drop it on that base when I give the command. Failure to do so will result in punishment _mos_t severe!" All the crewman on bridge automatically began working at twice the pace as before.

Lord Pernicious rose from his seat. "Shall we go then? I would love to see my… _our,_ new toys before we give them a test run," he asked Köblös pleasantly.

The Professor bowed. "Right this way, sir." The two wordlessly walked away. Whoever those poor fools on the surface were, they would have no idea what hit them…

* * *

**Sorry this chapter took so long, and sorry that it was so short. Well, now that school is upon us, it's probably going to take me roughly the same time to update. I'll try to get faster, but again, I make no promises.**

**Oh, and before I forget, yiffstar(dot)com IS a real website, so don't go there unless you either A) **_**want**_** to be mentally scarred, or B) think it's hot if chicks have fur and a tail. If neither of those apply to you, STAY AWAY!**


	4. A Question of Loyalty

**ATTENTION****: If you read this chapter within the first twelve or so hours it was out, I suggest you take a look near the end; I've added quite a bit to it, so you might want to check it out before **_**reviewing**_** (hint hint).**

**Well, I'm back. Sorry about the long wait, by the way. This new computer game I got, ****Galactic Civilizations 2: Dread Lords**** is just very, very, **_**very**_** addictive. That, and I got writer's block, and when I finally broke out of it, I couldn't get to my computer. Just one disaster after another, really.**

**Anyway, the beginning of this chapter introduces the third franchise of the four-way cross-over. This series, The Codex, is a machinima, just like Red vs. Blue and Omega Team. Unlike both of them, it is in the Action/Drama genre, instead of Comedy like the other two, and its events take place in the Halo universe, while the other two take place in their own universes. The Codex is the most kick-ass series out there, and I recommend it to anyone reading this. But if you don't feel like it, don't sweat; you'll learn about what happened in the series when each of the characters reveals it to the Blood Gulchers and the Omegas.**

**Disclaimer: ****Red vs. Blue, Omega Team, and all affiliated characters, organizations, and locations belong to Rooster Teeth Productions and Random Outburst Productions, respectively. The only things I own are the plot and the evil genetic engineer, Professor ****Köblös.**

* * *

Far beneath the surface, amongst the inky blackness that consumed the tunnels that honeycombed the planet's crust, a small, blue light invaded the curtain of darkness that normally pervaded those earthen halls. The ethereal glow slowly traveled across the area, looking like a firefly in the middle of a moonless night.

This ghostly glow was that of an energy sword, and its wielder a Covenant Elite. He was clad in golden armor with jet-black trim, which, even in the darkness of the tunnel, was clearly visible. Though barely noticeable, the hilt of another plasma sword was strapped to his hip.

He had been in that god-forsaken place for… hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn't remember. After walking for so long, time began to blend together. One thing was for sure: if he didn't get out of their soon, he would die.

_By the Forerunners, how am I going to get out of this place?_ He thought to himself. _I can barely see several steps in front of me. There must be some way out of here; a shaft, or a duct, or a path…_

His thoughts were cut short when he felt like something clicked in his brain, and a memory made its way to the forefront of his mind:

_So full of hate were our eyes that none of us could see_

_Our war would yield countless dead, but never victory_

_So let us cast our arms aside, and like discard our wrath_

_Thou, in faith, will keep us safe, whilst we find the path_

_The Writ of Union,_ he recalled, stopping, _the very foundation of the Covenant…_

He shook his head. _No, I must remain strong. The gods would not leave me, their devout servant, to die like this._

"_They have not,"_ a female voice whispered, _"for how could they? They don't even exist."_

He looked around in surprise. His eyes darted to every shadow that was cast by his blade's glow, yet he saw nothing. He could have sworn he heard something, but at the same time, he felt like he didn't; it was like the voice was inside his _head_. But that was ludicrous… wasn't it?

"Come out," he called. "Show yourself!"

"_I am afraid that is something I simply cannot do,"_ it responded. _"Dieing isn't exactly on my list of things to do today."_

"Who are you?" he hissed angrily.

"_I? I am a monument to all your sins,"_ it murmured back.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"_Doesn't it? Names are merely that: names. Titles. And titles are merely words to cling to as the darkness falls around you. It is not who you are. It is not what you believe. But then again, both have been brought into question as of late, haven't they?"_

"I _know_ who I am; I _know_ what I believe," he shouted into the shadows. "I am the Praetor, commander of millions of Covenant soldiers and countless starships; I believe in the Prophets, and in the Great Journey that they promise."

"_A disciple of the Prophets?"_ the voice said incredulously. _"Really? With all the doubts that plague your mind, all the trials they put you through, you haven't renounced them and their false gods?"_

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he growled dangerously.

"_Have you forgotten already? Allow me to refresh your memory."_

Just as he heard these words, he felt a sudden ache in his skull. He clutched his head and shook it, but it only seemed to get worse. The pain reached its crescendo, and he found himself clutching his head with both hands, letting his blade drop to the ground, as a flood of memories overcame him.

"_Enlightenment... and what if our loyalty to the Prophets became… an obstacle to that enlightenment? What if serving the Prophets kept you from truly knowing the gods? Which would you chose?"_

"_Betray the Covenant? Is that what I did…?"_

"_I have learned amazing things, things that even the Prophets do not know."_

"_The Covenant is slipping, my friend; it is losing the path. You can feel it as well as I."_

"_I have betrayed no one, except perhaps the dogmatic fools who wish to create the gods in their own image!"_

"_I did my duty!"_

After those final words roared in his head, the whirlwind within his mind subsided, and the pain in his head ceased. He was kneeling on the ground, using his hands to support his upper body; he must have collapsed and not realized it.

But… that voice… he recognized it. "Dové…"

"_Now do you remember?"_ the voice asked. _"Now do you remember what you have done?"_

"I… I didn't have any choice. I-"

"_You ALWAYS had a choice, Praetor,"_ the being snapped. _"You just weren't willing to give up your career, and ultimately your life, to save him."_

"You have no idea what he meant to me!" he bellowed in the blackness. He lowered his head to look at the ground, trying to hide the tears that were coming to his reptilian eyes from whoever was watching. "Dové… he was my mentor… and my friend."

"_Was that anger I just sensed in you?"_ the voice asked, obviously amused. _"That is good. It will prepare you for what you must do."_

"The only thing I _must_ do now is die," the Praetor spat. "The Prophets I once held in such high regard are power-hungry wretches; the Covenant I once served has rejected me… what more do I have to live for, even if I can get out of here?"

In a whisper barely even audible, the voice said one word, _"Revenge."_

Not believing what he heard, he hesitated for a moment. "Re… Revenge?"

"_Yes,"_ the voice hissed in excitement. _"Your nemesis yet lives."_

Picking up his head again, he asked, puzzled, "Nemesis? What are you talking about?"

"_The one who has set up barriers and sought to ruin your life out of spite; the one who has sought to harm you at every turn; the one who has antagonized you the entire way. The one… who benefited most from Dov__é Antenatee's death."_

Upon hearing that last line, his eyes widened in astonishment. "The Cleric is alive?"

"_Correct. And he is continuing to make the lives of others miserable in the name of his false prophets, and for his own benefit. And I know how to get to him."_

Grabbing his fallen energy blade, he asked, "What must I do?"

"_Simply follow my directions. Are you willing to do that?"_

Getting on one knee and lowering his head, he murmured, "I would do anything."

"_Good,"_ the voice purred. _"But let's get you out of your current predicament. First, turn to your right by roughly fifteen degrees; head in that direction and you'll see a tunnel leading upward."_

The Praetor did as instructed, running to where he was bidden. He glanced down at the inactive plasma sword on his right hip. _Don't worry, Dov__é,_ he thought to himself, turning his gaze forward again, _when all of this is over, the Cleric will pay for what he has done to you… to us, in his own blood._

* * *

"What… the fuck… is that?"

Those were the first words that escaped Church's mouth as he gawked at the obscenely large object in the sky.

Just a few minutes earlier, the day had been going just like the two before it. Simmons was working with Lopez, surfing the web and searching for any tech specialist that might be willing to help them; Sister, Caboose, and Tucker patrolling the top of the base; Sarge and Donut working on the Warthog on the bottom level, the latter hollering after accidentally hurting himself and the former yelling at him for not listening when he told him what not to touch; Doc heading downstairs to treat the pink-clad private; Grif taking a nap in an armchair with a magazine of questionable content draped over his visor; and Church toying with his sniper rifle, trying yet again to find out why the hell he couldn't hit anything with the damn thing.

Then Tucker spotted this gigantic thing in the sky headed right toward them. They all gathered on the roof, and they now had all their eyes turned upward. Thousands of feet above them, a long black object was descending toward the planet. It branched out into two prongs halfway down its side, making it look like a giant black tuning fork.

"Okay… that right there? That's just fucked up," Tucker said, feebly pointing at the UFO.

"No, that would be a spaceship," Sister corrected obliviously.

Sarge sighed. "She's a Grif, alright…"

"But who owns it? Why is it even here?" Church asked.

"Maybe it's just passing through," Doc ventured.

"I doubt it," Simmons stated. "It's a Destroyer-class cruiser."

"Is that something bad?" Caboose queried.

"Let's just say it has enough firepower to level New York City."

"Oh… yeah, that'd be bad."

"Hey, don't most ships have their names on the side? Why don't you use the sniper to find out?" Donut suggested.

Church brought his sniper rifle to bear and looked through the scope. "It's no good; this thing doesn't have nearly enough zoom. Tucker, you have good eyes. What does it say?"

"Okay, seeing across the canyon is one thing, but seeing something that high up is something else entirely," Tucker reminded.

"'The Discriminator,'" Simmons said simply.

Everyone present turned to him and Doc asked, "What?"

"That's what it says: 'The Discriminator.' Lopez, would start a network-wide search for that name, please?" Simmons requested.

"Sí. Minucioso…" a monotone voice emanated from below.

It was at this point in time that Simmons noticed that everyone but Sarge and Caboose were staring at him. "What?"

Doc was the one that spoke up. "How did you know that?"

Simmons tapped the left side of his visor and explained, "Cybernetic eye. It has two-hundred-to-one zoom, along with tons of other features; it's even outfitted with infra-red and x-ray vision."

"Hey," Caboose interjected, "does anyone else have this little prickly feeling on the back of their neck?"

The moment those words left Caboose's mouth, an incoherent screeching erupted over everyone's radio and Church collapsed. While everyone had their hands pressed against the side of their helmets, a translucent image of a soldier in white armor came into existence.

"What the hell was that?" Church's ghost roared.

"EMP burst," the Red Army officer responded as the static died down. "Don't bother getting back in that body; it'll be hours before it's in working order again."

By then the racket on the radio had died down, and Caboose said quizzically, "EMP… What's the E stand for?"

When Donut looked like he was about to answer, Church firmly said, "Don't encourage him."

"Why didn't he get shut down?" Sister asked, gesturing to Simmons.

"Because my mechanical parts have EMP conditioning. I'm immune to it," Simmons explained.

"Then why the fuck did he get fried?" Tucker asked. "You guys built that robot!"

"Did you really think we'd give a bunch of dirty Blues our state-of-the-art technology?" Sarge asked.

Just as Tucker was about to retort, a large shadow passed over the base.

It was then that the two rival teams noticed that the ship had stopped only a mile or two above the canyon; that was the bad news. The worse news was that dropships were now headed in their direction. A lot of them. The worst news was that there was no good news.

"Simmons," Donut breathed, "about how many soldiers are in those ships?"

"You don't want to know."

"If he didn't want to know, then why would he ask?" Caboose questioned. "That would just be silly."

"Those wouldn't happen to be Pelican dropships, would they?" Simmons asked Church.

"Yeah, I think so; what's it matter?" Church answered.

The cyborg turned toward the approaching ships, which were only several thousand feet away.

"Oh no…"

"Hey, Simmons, you okay?" Donut asked.

He spotted the slightest movement below the dropships' noses, which only confirmed his fears.

"Get down!"

The moment after he got his this warning out, the air was saturated in gunfire.

Simmons tackled Donut, sending the two of them sprawling down toward the floor below. Doc was the next to react, grabbing Sister by the waist and leaping down the opening in the roof. Sarge roughly grabbed Grif by the scruff of his neck and unceremoniously tossed him into the base before following suit. Tucker roughly shoved Caboose into the hole before going in himself.

"What the fuck just happened?" Tucker asked the congregation.

"Yeah, since when did they put guns on dropships?" Grif added.

"It's a new feature of the Pelican-class dropships," he explained. "They now have chin-mounted turrets to soften up the defenses of the drop zone."

"Well, they're definitely working!" Donut said.

"Wait," Church interjected, putting a hand up. "Do you guys hear something?"

After a few moments of silence, Caboose said, "I don't hear anything. Well, except that voice inside my head that tells me to kill all my friends before they have the chance to kill me!"

Saying that those around the Blue Team rookie were disturbed was like saying rain was wet. It was both obvious and an understatement.

Noticing that everyone was staring at him, Caboose said innocently, "What, you guys don't hear that?"

"Look," Church sighed, his patience wearing thin, "I'm going to take a look outside."

The deceased sniper jumped backward into the walls. Outside, his translucent helmeted head could be seen peeking out of one of the flags that adorned Red Base. If Church still had a body, he probably would have fainted at what he saw.

Soldiers clad in dark-grey armor filed out of the dropships, roughly a hundred of them total. Every one of them looked exactly alike except for the white numbers on their shoulders and backs. They were equipped with weapons of all kinds: sniper rifles, assault rifles, shotguns, even a few rocket launchers. And from the looks of it, they knew how to use them.

When the ghost returned inside, Tucker said, "Well? How's it looking out there?"

"Do you want the short version or the long version?"

"Short would do," Sarge grunted.

"We're. Screwed."

"Come out, we know you're in there," a voice echoed from outside.

"Should we go out?" Doc said.

"No, they've got snipers out there," Church whispered.

"And who are you to tell us what to do, dirtbag?" Sarge hollered back.

"I am White One, commander of Gigas Company, the elite unit under the direct command of Lord Pernicious."

"Lord, eh? If he's so high and mighty, why doesn't he come out here himself?"

"Lord Pernicious does not have time to deal with a bunch of insignificant worms like you."

"If we're so insignificant, why don't you come and get us, you bastard?" Sarge goaded.

"Um, Sarge," Simmons stammered, "I don't think that fighting them is _really_ the best idea."

"As much as I'd like to relieve you of your pathetic lives," White One continued, "I have my orders. I'm supposed to take you and any of your comrades alive."

_Tch, a bit late for that_, Church thought to himself.

"So, I'm giving you a chance to surrender."

"And if we refuse?" Sarge asked.

"If you resist, then we will take you by force. Since there are a hundred of us and less than a dozen of you, then I think it's safe to say that the odds are in our favor," the commander stated smugly. "You have ten minutes to comply. If you fail to respond in that time, we're coming in after you."

After that, silence reigned throughout Red Base, leaving all of them to their own thoughts. Should they stand and fight? Or should they surrender, and be at an unknown enemy's mercy?

Though only about a minute passed, it seemed like an eternity to Church before someone broke the silence.

"So," Donut piped up, "what should we do?"

"What else?" Grif asked. "We surrender. It's not like we really have a choice; there are way too many to fight."

"There are never too many to fight," Sarge said.

"Yeah, but what about too many to fight, and win?" Tucker retorted. Sarge just stared at the shotgun in his hands, unable to answer.

"But if we surrender, then they can do whatever they want with us," Doc reasoned. "I don't know about all of you, but I don't find the prospect of someone named 'Lord Pernicious' deciding my fate very appealing."

"But either way, we lose," Grif argued. "If we surrender, then we _might_ die; if we fight back, we'll just die tired."

"But there's always a chance that we could win, right?" Sister said.

"You're kidding, right?" Church spoke up. "There are a hundred of them. A _hundred!_ They outnumber us ten to one!"

"So?" Sister persisted. "Aren't you the one who said 'people with tanks are never outnumbered'?"

"Yeah, but our tank doesn't even work right!" Church yelled. "The only thing it can do is drive; without an AI, the turret won't even fire!"

"But-"

"You know what? Screw this, I'm leaving," Church said exasperatedly as he got up to leave.

"What? You can't just leave!" Tucker said, getting up to face his teammate.

Church turned on his heel and looked back at Tucker, who was staring at him with a look of pure hatred. "You just don't get it, do you?" the specter said levelly. "I'm dead, Tucker; this isn't my problem. Even if I do stay, what difference does it make? I'll still be dead, and you all will still be screwed."

"Church-"

"One reason," the deceased man said, holding up one finger, surprisingly not his middle one. "One reason, Tucker. Give me one, good reason that I should stay."

Tucker just turned his gaze to the floor, clenching his hands into fists. "I thought so," Church sighed, turning back around. He was about to phase through the wall, when he heard a voice that made him pause.

"I… I'll m-miss you…"

Church, looked over his shoulder, and, to his surprise, the voice came from Caboose. The rookie had his back against the wall, his head buried in his knees, which he was hugging against his chest.

"…what?" Church murmured.

"I'll miss you," Caboose repeated. "Andy, Junior, Sheila; all… gone. I don't want to lose you, too."

Caboose raised his head and gave Church a pleading look. Even though he was wearing a helmet, it was clear that he was crying.

Church looked away, not wanting to look his teammate in the eye. He felt something, some sort of emotion, one he was unfamiliar with… pity? Was that it?

He shook his head, shrugging off the persistent tugs at his heartstrings, and kept walking. Sentiment wasn't a good enough reason; whether they lived or died didn't affect him in the least.

Just as he disappeared into the wall, he heard Tucker say, "You'll never see Tex again."

A few seconds later, Church's transparent form peeked back out from the wall. "What?"

"You know what I said," Tucker spat. "Face it; you need us alive to build this machine. And without the machine, you'll never find Tex."

"Maybe I could find her another way."

"Maybe. Maybe not. The only sure thing is that this… whatever it is, is the best bet you have for seeing her again. And in order for the machine to be built, you need us."

"…fine," Church grunted after several moments of silence. "I'll help you guys out of this."

"Well that's all well and good, numbnuts, but we still haven't decided what _we're_ doing," Simmons said, motioning toward the rest of Red Team. "Your orders, sir?"

"Well, I've never left a conflict with my tail between my legs before, and I'm sure as hell not about to start now!" Sarge declared, cocking his shotgun for dramatic effect.

"Donut, what about you?" Simmons asked his teammate.

"Of course I'm helping! I didn't join the army to rot in some dreary old cell!"

"Good to have ya' aboard," Sarge said, slapping his pink-clad subordinate's back. "We could always use that good arm of yours."

"Grif? You coming?" Simmons said, turning to said slacker.

Though he suspected it was his imagination, Church thought that Simmons had said those last few words expectantly, almost like he was… worried. But wait, those two _hated_ each other… didn't they?

Judging by his reply, Grif did not catch on to this. "Well, I don't have a choice in this, do I?"

"Damn right you don't, dirtbag," Sarge confirmed.

"Look," Church growled, getting impatient, "it won't matter how many men we have if we don't have a plan. Any ideas?"

After ten seconds of silence, Grif said, "Well, I think I know how we could-"

"Grif, I'm sure you have an absolutely _brilliant_ idea," Sarge interrupted, his words dripping with sarcasm, "but whatever it is, I already know what my answer's gonna be: Shut yer mouth while intelligent people are talking."

"Do you have any ideas?" Tucker snapped. Sarge remained silent.

"Go ahead, Grif," Doc encouraged.

"Well, first off, Simmons, is Lopez still working?" Grif inquired.

"Yeah, he's still working."

"Tell him to stop that search he's doing; we'll need him for something else."

"What exactly are you going to do?" Caboose questioned.

Ignoring Caboose, Grif motioned everyone around him to come closer. "Alright," he whispered, "here's what we're gonna do…"

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"…Are we there yet?"

"Would someone shut him up?" the pilot snapped. "I'm trying to concentrate!"

"But I'm bored," José whined.

"Stow it, private," Sergeant Cleveland barked. "I know it's been a long trip, but you need to be patient."

It was true. Team Omega and their two captives had been in that ship for about sixteen standard hours, and most of them were losing their minds with boredom. For instance, Lucky was banging his head on the wall. Repeatedly.

"Private Romano, stop that idiocy right now!" Cleveland demanded.

"Sir, yes sir," Romano groaned, getting back in his seat.

"Seriously, when are we going to get there?" José pressed.

"Yeah, how much longer?" Ace griped. "It's half past ass-kick o' clock, and my watch is _slow_."

"Then it matches your personality," Dean muttered as he worked on a bronze-colored, egg-shaped device in his hands.

"What'd you say?"

"Hey, Dean," José interupted, "What are you working on?"

"Bubble shield," he mumbled.

"Sorry, private but I didn't quite catch that; I thought for a moment you said 'bubble shield,'" the green-armored officer said.

"I did," Roberts stated. "Deploying it creates an indestructable, near-impenatrable defensive forcefield that bullets, grenades, even rockets can't penetrate."

"Kick-ass!" José exclaimed.

"Sweet!" Ace chorused.

"Yeah, because when I think 'indestructable and impenatrable,' I always think 'bubble,'" Lucky quipped.

"'Near-impenatrable ,' Roberts?" his superior said, skeptical.

"Projectiles and explosions can't get through it, but people and vehicles can," the tech expert explained.

"You have to admit, sir, that's really fucking cool!" Ace gawked.

"Exactly when were you going to tell us about this invention of yours, private?" Cleveland inquired, ignoring his second-in-command.

"When I made enough for all of us. Since we had to leave so early, this is the only one; I was too busy working on the others to make any more," he responded, slightly glumly.

"Others?" Romano said, puzzled.

"Yeah; all my other inventions." With those words, he pulled out several objects from the nearby cargo. One was a large, bronze orb the size of a volleyball that had red lights adorning its surface, the most noticeable being a large cross; the second looked like a bronze-colored clockwork gear; third was an orb that was identical to the first object, but was made of a grey steel and had white lights; lastly, he pulled out an oval-shaped disc made of black steel.

"This," Dean started, hefting the bronze orb onto his lap, "is the radar jammer; it'll do hell to the motion trackers of anyone nearby, including us, so be careful."

"It's twin," he continued motioning toward the grey ball, "is a flare. It acts sort of like a grenade, but instead of an explosion, it'll blind anyone looking in its general direction."

"Third, we have the trip mine," he said, holding up the clockwork gear. "Once activated and set, anyone, and I mean anyone, who goes near it will get blown sky high."

"Last but not least, the deployable cover. This is the early version of the bubble shield, so it only faces one direction, and it isn't indestructible; if shot enough times, it will fail. On the plus side, if you're the one behind it, your bullets will go through, while any projectile trying to get in through the front will be blocked. With the bubble shield, the enemy can't shoot you, but you can't shoot them either, so it depends on the situation."

"I got dibs on the bubble shield!" Ace called out.

"I'll take the trip mine," José declared.

"If Ace has the bubble shield, I'll take the deployable cover," Romano stated.

Watching his subordinates grab their desired items, he sighed, "Well, then I'll take the radar jammer; it could be useful for psychological warfare."

Grabbing the flare, Dean said, "Alright guys, these things only have one charge; after you use them, they're useless until I recharge them, which I doubt can be done in the middle of a firefight, so only use them in emergencies."

"Alright, boys," the pilot said, "we've entered the planet's atmosphere. Estimated time to destination… holy shit!"

A radiant blue light filled the cockpit just as it burst into flame, the violent shaking of the ship sending the surviving occupants tumbling all over the ship.

"Sonnuva bitch!"

"Fuck!"

"What the hell?"

After he regained his bearings, their commanding officer asked, "Is everyone alright?"

"What do you think?" Romano roared, getting off the floor. "The cockpit just fucking exploded!"

"We're gonna die. We're all gonna die!" Dean whined as he lay on the floor, curled in a ball.

"Um, guys," José groaned, "if the cockpit just exploded… then who the hell is flying this thing?"

As the validity of José's question sunk in, Ace muttered, "Oh shit…"

It was then that all of them felt the sensation one got on a descending elevator, only magnified a hundred times over.

"Everyone, we're going to have to jump!" Ace shouted as he opened the bay doors at the rear of the Pelican.

"We're going to have to _what?_" Romano asked in disbelief.

Dean, however, did not hesitate. "Women and cowards first!"

"Wahoo!" José hooted as he jumped after his orange-clad teammate.

"Go on, sir!" Ace implored his commander.

"I am not leaving a man behind, corporal!" Cleveland said firmly.

"This isn't the time for this kind of stuff, sergeant!" Ace said, exasperated. "Me and Lucky will follow, just go!"

"But-"

"Go!"

Cleveland looked for a second before clapping his head on Ace's shoulder. "Stallion, you're going to make a great squad leader someday."

Taken aback, Ace stuttered, "Th-thank you, sir."

Tightening his grip on his battle rifle, he backed up, and whispered, "Well, here goes everything." With that, he ran towards the door and jumped, vanishing from sight.

"Lucky, you're next!" Ace said, turning to face said sniper.

"No way!" Romano shouted. "There is no way I'm jumping!"

"It isn't that far; take a look for yourself!"

Romano did as instructed, peeking over the edge. The Pelican was hundreds of feet above a blanket of trees that covered the landscape, a swamp from the looks of it, and they were descending rapidly.

Before he knew what was happening, Lucky felt a nudge to his back, and the sea of emerald below was rushing to meet him.

_That son of a bitch…_ Romano thought to himself as he realized what happened.

He fell further and further, closing the gap between him and the treetops. He reached the canopy, the sound of rustling foliage replaced that of air rushing past him, countless leaves obscured his vision…

And everything went black.

* * *

**Well, I hope this latest chapter was worth the wait; this thing was a bitch to write. Oh, and have a nice Thanksgiving, everyone!**


	5. Highroller's Gambit

**...Hello? Is anybody still reading this? Anybody? Nobody? I need about twenty ccs of 'what the hell is going on here'; any of you care to donate?**

**I apologize for the long time to update, but a combination of writer's block and personal troubles abound put me off writing for quite a while. I made this chapter particularly long to help make up for it, but if I'm going to continue this, I would like to know that four-fifths of my reviewers haven't given up on me. Needless to say, reviews would be the best way to do this.**

**Before I shut up, I just have to say that Red Base is not how it appears to be in the games. It's going to be an actual base with actual rooms and such, alright? So no complaining.**

**Disclaimer: ****Red vs. Blue, Omega Team, The Codex, and all affiliated characters, organizations, and locations belong to Rooster Teeth Productions, Random Outburst Productions, and Edgeworks Entertainment, respectively. The only things I own are the plot and the evil genetic engineer, Professor ****Köblös.**

* * *

_Ugh… what happened?_

That's the first thought Patrick "Lucky" Romano had as he began to regain consciousness. He opened his eyes, only to find his vision was incredibly blurred. He could tell one thing though: whereever he was, there was a lot of green.

As the feeling began to return to his limbs, he started to hear a voice, one that seemed far away.

"Hey, Sergeant Cleveland, if Lucky dies, can I have his cut of the porn stash?"

"I'm not dead yet, Dean," Romano groaned, recognizing the tech-expert's voice instantly. The blue-armored man sat up, shaking his head, to see the familiar forms forms of his sergeant and his orange teammate sitting nearby, their backs against a tree.

"Oh." He turned back to the sergeant. "If I kill him, do I still get his cut?"

Lucky gave the hacker a death glare. "Sir, permission to strangle Dean until his eyeballs pop out?"

"Permission denied," the officer responded.

"What about just kicking him in the balls?"

"Negative."

"Kidney punch?"

"Negative."

"Headlock 'im until he screams 'uncle'?"

"Maybe."

"Really?"

"No."

"You suck," Lucky spat.

"What was that, Private?" Cleveland barked.

"You suck, _sir!_" Romano corrected himself

"That's much better."

"Why would you want my cut, anyway?" the sniper asked. "Why not José's?"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean said, half laughing. "All of his stuff is that special-ordered crap. What'd he call it? Hentai? Anyway, its foreign and it sounds scary, so I don't want it."

Lucky was tempted to comment on how Dean's stuff was scarier than anything José could possibly have, but decided against it.

"Speaking of José," the sniper started, "where is the little pyro?"

"Right next to you, dickhead," Dean said, pointing to Romano's left. Sure enough, the soldier in grapefruit-colored armor was lying on his back a few feet away.

The sharpshooter crawled over to him on his hands and kness, stopping by his comrade's side.

"José," he whispered, waving a hand in front of his visor, "wake up, man."

"Let the man sleep," Cleveland ordered. "We've all had a rough day."

Ignoring his superior, Romano reached out his hand to nudge José's shoulder.

"Wohoo! Let's do that again!" José yelled, snapping to an upright position and pumping both of his fists in the air, sending his blue teammate reeling backward in surprise.

While Lucky was feeling like he was about to have a heart attack from the scare he'd just been given, both Cleveland and Dean felt that if it had been physically possible to anime-sweatdrop, they would have done so.

After catching his breath, Lucky hollered, "Don't do that!"

"Hm? Oh, hey Lucky!" the newly-awoken private exclaimed, putting his arms by his side again. "Do what?"

"Scare the living hell out of me, that's what!"

"Hey, Romano, do you think you could yell a little louder? I don't think Alaska heard you," their superior deadpanned.

"Uh, guys," José began, looking around, "where's Ace?"

"Yeah, where _is_ Ace?" Romano asked, just realizing the area's absence of red. "I wanna introduce his ass to my foot! The little jerk pushed me out of the goddamned ship!"

Dean and Cleveland glanced at each other for a moment before their superior spoke up. "Romano… we haven't found him yet. We were headed toward the crash site when we decided to stop for a rest."

"Yeah, because I made a startling discovery today: dragging an unconscious guy in full body armor across a god-forsaken swamp is _not_ fun," Dean added cynically.

Despite his visor being in the way, the sergeant gave Roberts a look that clearly said "shut up, you're not helping." In return, Dean gave a hopeless shrug that said, "well, it's true."

Romano and José, however, clearly didn't understand body language.

"Great, just great," Lucky griped. "We've just had our only mode of transportation shot to hell, we're lost in the middle of a big-ass swamp, and Lord Pernicious' goons could be anywhere! To top it all off, Ace, our close-quarters expert, which would have been _perfect_ for being in a swamp with fog so thick you could cut it with a knife, is nowhere to be found!"

With those last words, he threw his hands up in exasperation, panting from not breathing once during his little episode.

His three comrades stared at him blankly for several seconds.

"…So, you done ranting yet, Lucky? 'Cause the sooner we start walking, the sooner we get out of here," Dean stated, voice harsh and blunt.

Letting his arms drop to his side, Romano conceded, "Fine… let's get going."

"Hey, Romano, you might want this!"

Turning toward his commanding officer, he caught the object that was flung at him.

"My sniper rifle?" he asked incredulously as Cleveland began to walk off. "Sir, I fail to see how this could be of any help."

"How? You're the team sniper, aren't you?" José asked, following his CO.

"Yeah, but what good is a six-foot long weapon going to do me against an enemy that's five feet away?"

Ignoring his question, the rest of Team Omega walked off into the fog.

"Guys? Guys? Goddammit," he cursed, slinging his sniper rifle across his back.

Jogging to catch up with them, Lucky let out a sigh. "This is just not my day…"

* * *

"Time's up, insects!"

White Twenty-three tightened his grip on his assault rifle. Just what he needed; his commander blowing his top. Yet another thing for him to add to the list of things that went wrong today.

This entire operation was supposed to be a milk run. Land on the planet, take hostages, kill those who resist. Plain and simple. So why the hell did these lower life forms have to mess everything up? There was no way they could survive!

The odds being in their favor didn't calm the trooper's nerves, however. This was Gigas Company's first mission, and since it was such an easy one, if they _did_ fail, all of them would be labeled defective, and thus, he shuddered to think about it, '_scrapped'._ And he was sure that he spoke for the rest of the Mark II's when he said he didn't want that to happen.

White One shook his head. "Alright, so we'll have to do this the hard way. White Twenty-one! Get your squad in there! Check out what's going on and report back!"

"Yes sir!"

"C'mon, we're up," a voice whispered next to him. He turned to his right see his teammate, White Twenty-two, get up from the crouching position he had been in behind the hill they were using for cover.

"Finally!" a gravelly voice exclaimed. "I was hoping to get some action soon."

A turn to his left showed another soldier with a big twenty-four emblazoned on his shoulder get out from his hiding place.

Shakng his head, Twenty-three lifted himself off the ground and ran after his squad. He brought himself to a stop in front of the base's front entrance.

"All right," Twenty-one growled, "let's get this show on the road. Twenty-two, you take point; Twenty-five, you guard the door."

The latter simply nodded his head in acknowledgement, while the former gave out a small, "Yes sir."

Twenty-three watched as his comrade came to the first intersection, rifle at the ready. He looked to the right, then spun around to his left. He lowered his rifle and walked out of sight. After a few moments, even his footsteps stopped. Twenty-three could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He found himself thinking how different things felt out in the field than they did in the training sims...

"All clear."

Snapping back to reality, Twenty-three moved forward, the footsteps of his two companions seeming to echo in the empty space.

"Twenty-four, you go to the left with Twenty-two. Twenty-three, you're with me."

The tempermental soldier did as he was bidden and veered off to the left. As Twenty-three and his squad leader went their way, they immediately found a bend in the hall and turned left again.

They found themselves in a somewhat spacious living area. A ridiculously large skylight breached the ceiling, its light illuminating the only pieces of furniture in the room: a couch on one side, a computer hooked up to a TV screen on the other, and a coffee table in the center.

The two clones raised their rifles when they saw two figures burst in. On the opposite side of the room was none other than…

…Twenty-two and Twenty-four, both with their own rifles raised.

"…Well," Twenty-two said at length, "that was pointless."

"Just shut up and search the room, Twenty-two," their CO barked, lowering his firearm.

"_Somebody_ woke up on the wrong side of the test tube," Twenty-two quipped.

Chosing to ignore their comrade, Twenty-three and Four followed their orders. Twenty-four began tossing the cushions on the sofa aside while Twenty-three looked around. He found that each side of the room had two entryways, the wall opposite where they came in having a similar passage to the outside, and the remaining two walls sporting sliding metal doors.

"Sir," he piped up, getting his superior's attention. When the officer turned around, Twenty-three motioned toward the doorways on either side. The commander nodded.

"Twenty-two, found anything on that computer yet?"

"No sir," the grunt replied. He tipped over the computer's plastic shell, a bunch of bits of metal and plastic pouring out like sand. "They completely trashed all the hardware before they left."

"Can you salvage it?"

"Permission to use an analogy, sir?"

"Permission granted."

"Asking me to try to salvage this would be like asking me to read a paper document after someone had burned it by gluing the ashes together," the trooper stated bluntly.

"Then stop wasting time and pick a door," the officer snapped. "You too, Twenty-four."

They both let out a "Yes sir" before getting into position. Twenty-three mimiced their movements, getting to the side of the door closest to him in case the first thing that came out was a hail of bullets.

"On three, push the button that opens your door," the officer breathed. "One… two… three!"

They moved at once, the crisp shink noise of the metal doors siding open in unison. Twenty-three pivoted into the doorway, sweeping the area with his assault rifle. The room was… not what he expected, to say the least.

It was a bedroom, that much was certain; there was even a standard army cot in the corner, albiet with a pink quilt on it. What was interesting was the personal effects that were found everywhere. There were several books strewn across the floor, many of which looked like they had their spines on the wrong side, with such strange titles as "Inuyasha" and "Fruits Basket." He privately thought to himself that whoever wrote them must be part dyslexic. The walls were covered with posters of various kinds, with pictures of various people. Most of them were still-lifes, names such as "Draco Malfoy", "Eragon", and "Edward Cullen" all popping up, but several appeared to be of the Japanese post-modern drawing style he had heard about in the Human History vids, a violet cat-like creature with abnormally large hips and blue canine with red eyes being the most prominent.

While idly wondering how long the inhabitants of the base had lived on the planet, something caught his eye on the cot. It was a sketch pad and pencil, and it looked like whoever had been there was in the middle of drawing something before they dissapeared. Twenty-three walked over to the bunk, picked up the sketch pad, and began flipping through it, hoping to get a psychological profile on the person who lived there.

The first few dozen drawings were of people in the canyon, perhaps people the artist knew, but after that, it was all featuring the humans and creatures that adorned the walls of his (her?) room. They were all doing something similar, sometimes in trios, but he didn't know what. The clone vaguely remembered seeing something similar in the training vids on human anatomy and culture, but neither of those were really Twenty-three's strongsuit.

"Squad, form up!" his CO called, coming out of his own room. Twent-three turned around and rejoined his teammates in the central room.

"Yes sir," Twenty-four said first. "This room has definitely been lived in; there are beer cans, ashes, and the wrappings of some kind of ration called a 'Twinkie' spread all over the floor, along with several magazines with naked female humans hidden under the cot."

"Twenty-two, what about you?"

"Nothing that's there anymore," he responded. "There are hooks and rods stuck into the wall that look like they used to hold power tools and weapons, but that's all gone now. Strange thing is, it was someone's _bedroom!_ All I know is that whoever lived there must have been paranoid; the guy had a bayonet attatched to his goddamn toothbrush!"

"If all of that is missing, then they must have taken it with them, and are well armed," Twenty-four added. "That's going to make our job harder."

"I thought you _liked_ things harder," Twenty-two remarked.

"Yeah, when I actually get to fill _them_ with lead, not the other way around."

Twenty-one ignored his subordinates. "I didn't find much of anything, either. There were a lot of tech manuals, war novels, and science fiction stories. Nothing much of interest. The place was organized so well it was somewhat disturbing, though. Twenty-three, did you have any better luck?"

"Well, sir…" he started, uncertain how to begin, "there was a lot of strange stuff in there. It looked a lot like a room that you would find an adolescent female living in."

"So, nothing of interest?" Twenty-four asked.

"No, I found something," he responded, lifting the notepad up. "Whoever lived in there was an artist, and it looks like they drew the people who lived here."

"Why would we need that?" Twenty-two asked. "Our job is to just break their legs and drag them to the interogation room; we don't need to know what they look like to put them in our crosshairs."

"Twenty-two has a point; while interesting, it won't be of much use right now. Just be sure to get it to the torture specialists in case of the rare event that they actually decide to use psychological torture," Twenty-one stated.

"Yes sir, sorry sir," Twenty-three conceded.

He suddenly caught something moving on his HUD. It was his motion tracker. He glanced toward the lower left corner where it resided, and he saw red dots… _lots_ of red dots. And according to the tracker, they were _right on top of them_.

"Everyone, outside, on the double!" their superior ordered, motioning back the way they came. "Our radios are being jammed; we have to get outside and warn the commandant!"

Twenty-three was in front of the group as they left, Twenty-two asking behind him, "How the hell did they not show up earlier?"

"Damn if I know, but if we don't get outside and find cover, we're fucked," Twenty-four stated, taking up the rear. "The size of those contacts means vehicles, and lots of them."

"I said _double time_, men!"

As they reached the entrance, they Twenty-five, the one they left to guard their exit, just outside the compound with his back to them. The lookout, hearing the footsteps, turned around to find his retreating comrades.

"What's wrong, si-?"

"Fall back, Twenty-five, and that's an order!" their team leader barked.

Twenty-three cleared the doorway and was about to meet the bewildered Twenty-five when a loud whirring sound to his left caught his attention. He tilted his head and saw something large and purple headed straight toward them. Two things registered in his mind in that split second: "_A Covenant Ghost is headed straight for me"_ and _"Get the hell out of the way!"_

Time seemed to slow down as his training kicked in. The clone turned toward the advancing vehicle and jumped, leaning his body forward as if to somersault over it. His body cleared the Ghost's hood, and he sailed over the head of the driver in pink Spartan armor. He twisted his body and stretched his arm downward. His glove found the edge of the cockpit's seat and latched on.

Things sped up again as the Replicant soldier felt his arm almost jerk out of its socket from the pull of the purple hovercraft. He heard a scream as Tweny-five was struck with the Ghost's left wing. The last of the four blue dots at the top of Twenty-three's HUD faded out, indicating that his teammate had been killed.

The soldier could feel his fingers slipping, and brought his other arm up to the edge of the Ghost's cockpit. With great effort, he was able to swing his legs forward to hook onto the vehicle as well.

Now confident of his balance, Twenty-three looked forward to face the back of the driver's head. He raised a fist to knock him from his perch, but sudden turbulence caused him to firmly plant both of his hands onto the vehicle; the Ghost had crested the hill the clone had been taking cover behind earlier, and had just plowed through at least ten of the soldiers who had still been doing so.

"Hey, how did you get back there?" a high pitched voice exclaimed. The driver, now aware of the clone's prescence, turned back to look at him.

Choosing not to respond, Twenty-three lunged at the controls.

"Hands off, buddy!" the pink-clad stranger protested, trying to drive his hands away from the dashboard. The Ghost lost its heading in the confusion, making abrupt turns and going in circles. The distraction attracted the attention of several nearby Replicants, who began firing at the cockpit with their rifles.

Just as the clone got his fist around one of the handles, pressing down hard to send the Ghost into its blindingly fast boost, he heard his opponent say, "Got something for ya', punk!" The pink Spartan jammed his palm into the Replicant's face, and Twenty-three's visor was suddenly overtaken by a pulsating blue light. A harsh impact then jostled his skull, likely the driver's fist, making him lose his grip. "Yeaheah, take that!"

Adrenaline pounded in the soldier's head as he felt himself free-fall. In a rush of instinct, he grabbed hold of the sides of his helmet and yanked it off. He tossed it with all his strength toward the retreating Ghost. The clone watched his helmet as he landed, his armor kicking up dirt and his left leg bending back at an unatural angle toward his hip. He hissed in pain, cursing the laws of momentum, as his discarded helmet exploded right behind the Ghost. The explosion sent the back of the vehicle flying into the air, the pilot losing control.

"Oh, son of a bi-!"

The faint curse of the Spartan cut off, his ride slamming top-first into the canyon wall. The violet vehicle fell backward into its upright position, the limp body of the driver sliding out of his seat.

_Avoided getting run over, escaped__ death by plasma grenade, and neutralized an enemy vehicle… I'd call that a good day's work,_ he thought through the pain of the adrenaline wearing off. He picked up the assault rifle which lay at his side, rolled onto his back, and started to crawl back toward the crest of the hill, his vision getting blurrier and the gunfire sounding a lot more distant now...

* * *

"Oh, son of a bi-!"

Church winced as he saw Donut's Ghost slam into the cliff in front of him. _Poor bastard… he better not've damaged my goddamn hovercraft, though._

Returning himself to the task at hand, he looked to the path ahead, the winding bath along the canyon wall now holding at least a dozen of the dark-grey soldiers, each sporting a sniper rifle or rocket launcher and a stockpile of ammo at their feet. He crouched down, keeping close to the shadows just in case they could see him in his ghostly form.

As he neared, he heard the unmistakable clap of thunder that was the tank's main turret; he turned his head to the center of the canyon and saw the Warthog speed by, the volume of Simmon's colorful insults and battlecries rivaling the rattling of the turret he was firing for all it was worth. Grenades went off as it passed, the teal form of Tucker lobbing them into the rocks from the passenger's side.

The escape was in full swing.

"Seventeen, get the laser and take out that tank! Aim for the barrel!" one of the nearby invaders shouted, a white sixteen printed on his back and shoulder plates.

"Yes sir!" another responded, his apparent namesake also emblazoned on his suit, as he turned around and picked up… something. Church didn't recognize it, but it was bulky, long, green, and the soldier was holding the back on his shoulder like a rocket launcher. The one called Seventeen pulled the trigger, and a narrow, faint red laser flickered toward the other side of the canyon, the tank in question coming into view while it blasted away the soldiers on the cliffs opposite Church.

"I don't think so, asshole," Church spat to himself as he went into a sprint and jumped into the soldier's skin.

The soldier gave a slight jerk and took his finger off the trigger as Church hijacked his body. The specter found it surprisingly easy to overpower the soldier's mind, the new puppet's senses and muscle control flooding into the dead private's consciousness instantly. _That's odd… I don't think I even felt a fight._

He was noticing how the layout of the soldier's HUD was almost exactly like his old one when he heard the other from before bark, "Seventeen, what are you doing?"

"Sorry, sir," Church responded, his own voice sounding alien to him, "messed up my shot."

"That shaky aim of yours is going to get you killed one of these days, soldier," he heard him reply. Church didn't notice at first, but it seemed to him that the voice of his host and that of his commander sounded almost exactly alike.

"Roger that," he responded, trying to sound professional. He rammed his finger on the trigger, aimed in the general direction of the tank, and watched as the red beam flickered to life again. A small arrow went around the side of the reticule as it charged, and the red light was growing more intense the closer it got to the top.

_Oh shit, time's up!_

He swerved around, bringing the barrel of his weapon to point along the cliff path when it fired a thick, crimson laser. Church was almost knocked over by the kickback, the heavy weapon lurching backward from the shot and red mist pouring out of the end. He regained his balance and looked up. Most of the soldiers along the ridge had a hole burned clean through them; no trace of flesh or armor, just a ring of singed wounds. In unison, about a dozen lifeless bodies collapsed, several of their dismembered limbs and still-occupied helmets rolling down the cliff face. The soldiers who hadn't gotten hit looked around in confusion as one who did was staring at his smoldering stumps for arms. Almost as one, they turned in Church's direction.

"Seventeen's gone rogue!"

"Traitor!"

"Put him down!"

"Holy shit… I actually hit something!" Church exclaimed, before he felt a hail of bullets pelt into his body. "Son of a bitch!"

He shed his current host, letting the heavily wounded soldier collapse to the ground as a pool of blood formed around him before a trio of battle rifle rounds that broke through his helmet put him out of his misery.

Suddenly, Church found himself as the new target of the survivors. Of course, the rounds passing through him simply gave him a weird tickling sensation, and he leaped into the nearest host, a soldier firing wildly at him with an SMG.

_The hell…? Getting into these guys is _too_ easy_, the ghost pondered as his new host's senses flooded into his own. Ignoring the frantic comm chatter, mostly exclamations from his immediate opponents at his appearance, he swung around to face them, unlatching a frag grenade from his host's waist and tossing it with a swift click of the trigger.

To the ghost's dismay, the grenade landed on a patch of ground only occupied by the remains of victims of the earlier laser shot.

"Oh, son of a-!" he exclaimed as the grenade exploded harmlessly and his host's comrades focused fire on him.

Church jumped out of the unfortunate soldier just as he fell to the ground, the visor of his helmet completely shattered and bloody from the stream of gunfire that poured into it. "_Really_ gonna have to learn to make 'em last longer…" he growled, sprinting toward the next enemy, unphased by the futile shots they all directed at the specter.

* * *

"Oh how I wish Sponge were still alive…"

Lord Pernicious groaned as the doors to the bridge opened before him. He strode inside angrily, the Professor close behind him.

"If you truly feel the need for a new sychophant-"

"First Lackey," Pernicious corrected, frustration evident in his voice.

"Right, 'First Lackey,' I could always make another clone; I still have the imprint for the last one," Köblös finished.

"No, no, we need every cloning vat available to replenish our inventory." The commander eased himself onto the bridge's throne. "I can live without a personal boot-licking meatshield… for a while. Though we will need to make a new commander, if we can't select one; though he was a trecherous worm who bit the hand that made him, Commander Quirkless will be hard to top in competence. It was rather unfortunate I had unload an entire clip of my rifle into him before he finally died; such a waste of ammo… and skill, I guess," he mused to himself, getting lost in thought.

"Good thinking, sir," the doctor nodded.

"Naturally."

Pernicious set his armored chin into his hand, watching the scene before him unfold on the main view screen. It was an aerial view of the battle in the canyon with the trespassers he wanted eliminated, and instead of seeing a line of soldiers with their hands behind their heads like he had hoped, he instead saw his newest, latest batch of soldiers in disarray, their lines broken and being hunted down all across the canyon in a mess of gunfire and explosions that looked more like abstract art than an actual event.

"…Köblös?"

"Yes, sir?" he answered coolly.

"Gigas Company was based on the DNA of that Federation prisoner we took on Centauri Eight as per my request, correct?"

"Correct."

"And they are also – by your own words – supposed to be stronger, faster, smarter, agile…_er_, more susceptible to orders and less likely to be complete pansies unlike some _other_ models?" He glared around at the bridge crew, most of which either visibly cringed or worked faster in response.

"Also correct..." the professor said at length.

"Then why, whywhy_WHY _are they being slaughtered by a force a tenth of their size?" the white-armored man asked angrily, a dent left in the arm of his throne from repeatedly banging his fist on it.

"Well, let's take a look at the battle, shall we?" Unfazed, the olive-colored doctor approached the side of the throne. "What're the men saying on the ground, comm officer Blue Fifty-one?"

"It's chaos; very hard to sort out specifics, sirs, even with my team," the clone spoke up from a console on the floor below the throne.

"Excuses are not needed right now, Fifty-one!" Pernicious barked in his direction.

"What can you discern?" Köblös followed-up levely.

"Th-the unkown ground force has four vehicles," the clone started, clearly nervous. "An M-eight-oh-eight-B Main Battle Tank, an M-twelve L-R-V, a M-two-seven-four Ultra-light A-T-V, and a Type Thirty-two R-A-V."

The white-armored leader groaned again. "Would you repeat that _sans_ the technobabble, please?"

"You called, Your Ruthlessness?" a clone toward the head of the bridge spoke up, wheeling his chair to face the throne. Unlike the others, he had cyan armor and a personalized emblem, three golden triangles connected at the corners to form another triangle.

"Not _you_, First Pilot Technobabble!" Pernicious snapped right back. "Now focus on doing your job or I'm revoking your Xbox Live Gold Membership!"

"Y-yes sir!" Technobabble squeaked, spinning back to his console.

Köblös shook his head with a sigh. "You really do spoil that one too much…"

"If we weren't in such dire straights, they'd all have priviledges like that, but because of several _mishaps_, we are," he responded. "And you can't complain, Köblös; it's because of you that I had the pool of marshmallow fluff drained to make room for more of your equipment, and morale went down as a result. Do hope you're happy."

"It matters little," Köblös said tersely. "Fifty-one, please continue."

"Yes s-sir," he stuttered. "The vehicle's names, in more generic terms: a Scorpion tank, a Warthog, a Mongoose, and a Covenant Ghost."

"Covenant… now there's a name I haven't heard in a while," Pernicious hummed. "Strange that humans would have one of those…"

"It was neutralize a few moments ago, sir; no longer a threat," the clone clarified, anxiety gone from his voice.

"Then why, may I ask, haven't the heavy weapons teams down there disabled the other, more _powerful_ vehicles?" he shot back.

"Er… well…" he stuttered.

"Go on," Köblös encouraged.

"The comm chatter is talking about… a ghost, sirs, taking out our snipers and demolition men."

Lord Pernicious leaned forward in his seat. "Would you mind _repeating_ that, Fifty-one?"

"A ghost, sir. That's what the men are seeing, and that's what the cameras are picking up."

"Zoom in on that spot." the professor ordered.

Pernicious returned his gaze to the screen, which began to close in on one trail that ran along the cliff wall. As the image came in closer, to his surprise he saw a white blur jump on one of his men wielding a rocket launcher and disappear. Every soldier nearby began firing on this one soldier, who wheeled around and fired a rocket into the ground in front of him, killing himself and a nearby sniper. Before the burst of unearthed dust even settled, the white figure ran out of the cloud, running into Replicant gunfire as it passed straight through him.

"It seems these interlopers do so well due to supernatural help."

Pernicious growled. "Thank you for stating the _obvious_, Professor. Now what are we going to _do_ about-?"

"Um, Your Viciousness, sir?"

"What _is_ it, Technobabble?" he spat at his subordinate. "It'd better be damn important!"

"There's a radio transmission coming from the planet's surface, sir!" the pilot said hastily. "Not one of ours, and not from the canyon! I… I think you may want to listen."

"Fine!" he barked. "Patch it through!" He pressed a button on the arm of his chair that he hadn't broken, turning on a speaker.

"_Good day, sir. So sorry to interrupt, but it appears like your little invasion isn't going so well,"_ a voice came through the comm, laughing mirthfully. The accent was thick British, or at least something close to it, from what he could tell, and the tone gave him the impression that the speaker was getting up in years.

"Who are you to insult _my_ army, you little worm?" Pernicious growled angrily.

"_Now now, no need to get testy,"_ the voice admonished. _"I'm calling to offer my services."_

"What kind of services?" he asked, already becoming impatient.

"_The kind that involve stealthily putting a bullet in a man's head. For the right price, of course."_

"And why would I want a mercenary when I have an army?"

"_Because I'm quite familiar with the chaps your men are getting slaughtered by down in that canyon. I could tell you all you need to know about them, and would gladly get rid of them."_

"I'm listening… what do you want in return?" the white-armored commander asked, visibly relaxing.

"_Just for you to get me off this rock; nothing more. Dreadfully dull place until you lot came, and I simply must get back to the galaxy at large."_

"Alright, you're hired," Pernicious agreed, visibly in a better mood. "I'd like to discuss the final terms in person, however… where are you?"

"_Ah, prefer things face-to-face, do you? I'm currently in the frozen crater at the top of the mountain close to Blood Gulch, the canyon where the battle is."_

"I'll redirect a transport for you shortly then, Mister…?"

"_My name's Reginald, my good man… but you can call me Wyoming."_

* * *

**I apologize in advance for any spelling errors; for some reason, Spellcheck isn't working at the moment****, but hopefully mt beta reader, Ari, caught them all. If you see any, please feel free to point them out, as usual.**


End file.
